Mistress Scout
by Rebelrugger0307
Summary: Marguerite St. Claire's life is turned upside down when the Royal Dragoons come knocking at her Stepfather's door. Forced to make a choice in order to protect her family, Margaret's adventures are far more than she bargained for.
1. Fire and Ice

I know it's been quite some time since I've published anything on here. Tough times and a busy schedule sapped a lot of my creative energy. This story (or parts of it) have been in the works on my computer in some way, shape, or form, for almost two years now. I've decided it's mostly finished now and high time I share the thing. Nothing like putting something you've worked hard on out into the world. Enjoy.

* * *

In the early evening twilight, cicadas sang with the nightingale, the horses stomped impatiently for their evening feed and the wind sighed through the field of head high corn, rattling the stalks and making them dance in swirling patterns. Margaret emerged from tree line slowly; swinging a basket filled with mushrooms, roots and herbs she'd spent most of the day collecting. Her hair hung in a loose braid down her back, the evening sun picking up the red and copper highlights in her wild strawberry blonde hair. She held her other hand out, brushing the thick stalks of corn and counting the ears on each one before eventually losing count. The sky was turning a dusty purple and pale green as she eased into the mud room and placed her basket on the table. She was just tucking her hair up into her mob cap when her stepfather stepped into the doorway leading to the rest of the house.

"Where have you been?"

"In the woods." She answered quietly. Her stepfather had taken her in after her husband had died. There had been no money left to her. What had been arranged as a good marriage had turned out to be empty. She'd grown accustomed to her husband's lack of diligence and the freedom that his lax manner had given her; the _emptiness _of her married life in all things. Now, under her stepfather's roof, she was monitored at all times.

"All day?" He stepped into the room and looked at the mix of things she'd collected. "What about your chores? The childrens' lessons?"

"Done…all of them. The children are far ahead in their lessons….I gave them the day to finish their own chores."

John Miller grunted as he swiped at dirt clinging to a wild onion root. "Time off. You're worse than your mother when it comes to coddling those children."

A horse shrieked outside and John sighed. "Seems Edward forgot to see them properly settled. I'll go see to it myself." He slowly trudged out the mud room door and left Margaret to enter the house and see that the children were fed their dinners before he got back. Mariah, John's house slave, was bustling around the noisy table, ladling out stew and helping the younger children break their bread.

"Thank Goodness you're home Missus. Mister Miller was right angry, you being still gone and supper hitting the table."

"I'm sorry Mariah." Margaret said as she tied her apron around her waist, "I got caught up along the creek bed. I went farther than I intended to." Mariah shook her head as she leaned over one of the children to help cut a potato down to size. Margaret sat beside the toddler, Elizabeth, and spooned the gravy from the stew up into her little mouth.

"Did you find what you was looking for?" Mariah asked as she rescued Henry's spoon from the floor.

"I did." Margaret said, making faces at Elizabeth to get her to open her mouth. "It took forever to find that spotted jewelweed. Plenty of the pale type here abouts, but the touch-me-not is better for what we want."

Mariah's head snapped up and her eyes shone brightly. "You found some then?"

"I did." Margaret smiled and swiped at Elizabeth's messy face with a rag. "It should be damp enough outside tonight to save what I brought back and we can make up some soap tomorrow for you to bring home to your George."

"Thank the good Lord, Missus. He's been itchin' a storm. Out there all day in those woods clearing that new field. Lord knows what sort of poison he gets all over hisself."

The two women chatted quietly, answering questions from the children and listening as Edward told of his adventures of the day.

"Yes, and what with all that adventuring in the woods, you forgot to put the horses up, didn't you?" Edward looked to Henry, confused. "Don't blame Henry, he's too young to be helping you. You know full well I needed to go up the creek today to look for plants and things and the deal we made for you having the day off and not getting dragged along with me was that you finish all your chores." Margaret stared at the eldest boy her mother had birthed, twelve or thirteen years her junior. "When will you learn that you must do your chores properly?"

"But I did…." Edward was cut off as the back door of the house slammed violently open. Margaret turned quickly to see what the commotion was about. She had grown accustomed to slamming doors in her mother's house; injured people too frantic to care about propriety. She'd also grown accustomed to them in her husband's home when he came home drunk and lost his grasp on the handles, or fell through them. She thought she was prepared for whatever might come crashing through a door.

John Miller falling to the floor in the mud room, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead was not what she was expecting in the least.

_The horses must have gotten spooked..._

In her head she started cataloging what she would need to treat the injury even as she rose to her feet to go to the man her mother had married. Margaret ignored the terrified screams of her half siblings, focusing on John as he tried to pull himself to his feet. Terror could be dealt with later...all that blood had to be dealt with now.

Margaret's attention was briefly pulled from the bleeding man in the mud room to the front door as it was violently kicked open. She paused, long enough to look at the man stepping into the house. He was very much alive, bathed in shifting firelight from what she assumed were torches outside. He did not appear to be injured and so her decision was made before she could think about it. She made to move towards John, to help him, when the man at the front door lowered his horse pistol in her direction and drew the hammer back.

"Leave him." Margaret stepped back and raised her hands to the sides, gazing long and hard at the man in the front entryway.

_A British Dragoon._

She'd know those uniforms anywhere. She'd seen them in Charlestown whilst she'd lived there, and she'd read about them in the rebel rags that occasionally came through with travelers. To see one molded to the solid frame of a man made her blood run cold. Everyone knew the dragoons were killers. Heartless men who cut down those surrendering and killed enemy wounded.

"All of the inhabitants are asked to gather at the front of the house." The man directed Margaret towards the open door with the muzzle of the pistol.

"Come children. Do as the man says." She said calmly. The children scooted their chairs from the table and stood, their eyes big as the saucers that stayed in the hutch in the corner of the room. The eldest of her half siblings, Mary, grabbed Elizabeth and carried her towards the front of the house. At nine, Mary was slight for her age, Elizabeth at 3 sucked her thumb and stared at the dancing shadows on the wall, thankfully too young to fully understand the danger of the situation. Edward and Henry followed, taking in the uniformed man: his gun, the bear pelt helmet, the saber at his hip, the shine on his fine Hessian boots. John pushed himself to an upright position against the wall, his hands shook as he tried to staunch the blood that slithered down his face. Margaret paused in the doorway, torn between staying close to her brothers and sisters and helping John.

"Go ahead, Margaret. I'll be right with you." Margaret watched as her stepfather used the wall to steady himself and then make his way towards the front door way. She made her way out the door and down the stairs into the evening light.

Men on horses bearing torches surrounded the house. She heard John's heavy tread and then a whispered word as Mariah made it to his side to assist him down the stairs. Margaret went to where the children gathered in the cool of the night, staring at the men before them.

"What is the meaning of this?" Margaret asked, trying to make out the faces behind the blazing torches. "Why are you here, pulling children from their suppers?"

"I'll be asking the questions here." A man with eyes the color of winter ice said as he rode into the circle. "Do you know who we are?"

Margaret glared at the man, his perfect uniform, his bearing. She heard the clipped tones and slight drawl of England in his voice and knew full well who he was.

"You're Royal Dragoons." Edward blurted, a sense of wonder in his voice.

"Very good boy. We have information that you aided the rebels."

"We help everyone who stops on this road." John said, glaring at the man on horseback. "We ask not their creed, or religion or beliefs. Ours teach benevolence and kindness."

"Then you do not deny aiding the rebels?"

"I merely say it is _possible_ we may have helped a _rebel_ though I wouldn't know since I don't question those asking for help." John snapped, his anger rising.

"And yet you questioned us!" The man spat, equally as angry.

"You barged into my home! Disrupted my family!" Elizabeth began to cry loudly, fearing the raised voices, Mary's grip slipping as she struggled to hold the wriggling, upset toddler. Margaret moved forward and took the wailing child up into her arms, bouncing her…trying to coddle her. John modified his tone. "Had you come to our door, I would not have questioned—" The man on horseback leveled his pistol, silencing John with the click of the hammer.

"Sir, do not make me do something I would regret. Your lies are very irritating." John stood to his full five feet and eleven inches of height and raised his chin. "Now, have you horses?"

"Yes." John answered.

"How many?" The tone of the man's voice sent chills racing down Margaret's spine.

"Four sir." John sighed wearily. "They are not war horses though—merely two carriage horses, a plow horse and my wife's hunter." He glanced at Margaret a moment as he said the last.

"No..." Margaret glared at John. The hunter had been her mother's horse.

"The hunter would be the only one of use to you."

"I'll decide what is and is not of use to me." The man snapped. "What of weapons in the house? Powder? What do you know of rebel troop movements, anyone supplying them?" The man's questions came so fast that John could not answer them as they were asked.

"There is of course my hunting rifle, but that is all. I have a very little bit of powder left for it." The man on horseback nodded to one of the men standing on the porch. Margaret heard crashing inside as the man went looking for the rifle and powder.

"If you but ask, we can retrieve the rifle for you." Margaret said coldly, watching the man on horseback. Her low voice barely carried in the humid night air and the man ignored her. She looked at Elizabeth who whined pitiably. Her evening routine had been disrupted, it was long past time for the toddler to have been put to bed. "Probably crashing through like a bull in there." She blew air across the little girl's cheek, trying to get her to smile, to get the child to ignore the loud noises coming from inside the house.

"And the rest?" The man asked as something inside shattered.

"I don't know anything of the rebels. As I told you, I don't ask questions of those at my door."

"How convenient for you." The dragoon sneered. The man's eyes seemed to glow in the torchlight, his teeth bared in frustration. John did not flinch. The man who had gone inside for the rifle came out with the weapon in hand, as well as the horn of powder that had been hanging next to it on the hook in the mud room.

"Could you perhaps act as a scout for us?" Another of the men asked from the ring of horses beyond the blue eyed man. His voice was calmer than any other she'd heard so far, almost weary sounding.

"I know only what I need to for my farm and for trading." John answered. The man with the pistol looked over to where Margaret stood behind the children. She stood her ground even as her siblings stepped back around her, Henry grasped her skirts and Mary looked down quickly. Only Edward and Margaret maintained their watch on the dragoon with the pistol.

"You! Boy!" Edward snapped to attention, his eyes wide with fear as the man edged his horse closer to where they stood. The big hooves clomped down in the dust of the yard, sounding for all the world like a slow heart beat. "What do you know of the land? A boy like you must have an adventuresome spirit."

"I…I….I…." Edward stammered. "I…"

"Speak up!"

"I'm not permitted to wander!" Edward finally blurted before he turned and skirted his siblings to stand behind Margaret, hiding his face in her skirt. Low laughter sounded from different places in the fiery circle surrounding them. Blue eyes narrowed dangerously again, but Margaret's patience had snapped.

"Enough!" She said, setting Elizabeth down beside Mary and stepping out in front of the children. "He's a boy—barely eight years old. What right have you to pull him from table and scare him half to death?"

"Margaret…" John muttered behind her but he had ignored her, she felt turn about was fair play.

"We are citizen's of the King. We paid our taxes, we go to the church, we do our Christian duty…why are _you _here?" Margaret found herself dangerously close to the man on horseback, staring up into the icy blue eyes, oddly cold against the fiery red jacket.

"You should learn to hold your tongue." He said as he leaned low over his horses neck, the better to whisper to her. "I'm not completely beyond shooting a woman." The man turned his horse away from her and moved past her. Margaret was certain of it now…she'd just stared down William Tavington. Her ears rang and her vision blurred for a moment as her breath stilled, so great was her fear.

_What had she been thinking? Going toe to toe with the man called _The Butcher?

"Well sir, since you are of no use to me in the field, I feel I have no choice but to make an example of you." With the pistol pointed squarely at John Miller's chest, Tavington issued his sentence. "You aided rebels, a treasonous act and for that, you mus—"

"No!" Margaret turned and stepped forward again, slowly walking towards where Tavington pointed the gun at her stepfather.

"You should learn to control your wife, sir. She is most irritating."

"She's my step-daughter, not my wife." John glared at Margaret. "What are you doing? Get back to your brothers and sisters…" He waved her away but she continued forward until she stood at Tavington's stirrup.

"You say you want someone to be useful to you…someone who knows the land and the area?"

"And you're willing to give this person up?" Tavington took his eyes off John and glanced down at Margaret. She resisted the urge to shiver.

"Yes."

"Margaret, no!" Mariah stepped forward and grasped Margaret's hand.

"Take me." Margaret glared up into the icy eyes and shook Mariah's hand off. "I know the land all around for quite some distance. I know the swamps and the creeks and the farms. I can draw you maps of it…or I can cook or sew. I know the herbs and flowers…."

"Silence Margaret!" John snapped. The children pleaded with her not to talk anymore, adding their choruses of "No Margaret!" to the night noises of the Carolina farm.

"And I can make some repairs to some tack if need be!" Margaret continued, ignoring her stepfather's words, desperation urging her to speak louder and faster, the better to be heard over the others. Tavington looked her over but he said nothing. "Promise not to harm my step father, or his children. Leave this house and the fields alone and I will go with you. Then you'll have someone of use to you and you'll have no reason to make an example of this man or his family." Margaret straightened her shoulders and locked her eyes on Tavington's. "Promise me that and I will go with you."

"What do you know of this area?" Tavington sneered. "How would a woman know more about the land than her_ stepfather_?" He obviously didn't believe their relationship.

"Her mother, my wife, was a mid-wife." John looked down to the dust at his feet. "She took the girl with her for years. Showed her where the game trails were and how to get to the settlers."

"And where is this paragon of femininity?" Tavington glanced at the house, as if he could see through the walls and discern whether or not someone else was inside.

"Buried in the ground beneath yonder great oak." Margaret answered with a toss of her head. Tavington brought his eyes back to her, gazing down at the plain spoken woman before him.

"And you'll give yourself as a scout to the Dragoons?"

"In return for your promise not to harm…"

"Yes, yes…." Tavington waved the pistol through the air as if brushing her comments away. "Very well." Tavington turned his horse and signaled to the man with the calm voice. "Wilkins, you'll take her up behind your mount. Borden, collect their horses for the dragoons." Tavington turned and glared at her. "Madam, I do hope you know what you've gotten yourself in to."

"Might I fetch up some things—before we leave?"

"You have one minute."

"That's hardly enough time. Ten minutes."

"This is not an auction. You will do as you are told in the time allotted to you." Margaret stood her ground a moment more, not taking her eyes from Tavington.

"Five minutes." Tavington blinked and then reached into his waistcoat to pull a watch from it.

"Your time is running out." Margaret nodded and turned to go inside. Her mind was spinning at an alarming rate.

_What on _Earth _possessed me to argue with The Butcher?_

_Why did I volunteer to go with him?_

_What have I gotten myself in to?_

_The Butcher!_

_What should I take with me?_

She walked slowly back to the mudroom and took down some of the salves she'd set aside…things she wasn't sure she'd be able to make in a Dragoon camp on the move. She stuffed them into the medicine bag her mother had often carried, the soft leather smelling strongly of all the herbs it had ever held. She stared at the shelves blankly for a moment, the sound of horses outside finally reached her though.

_Quickly! Clear your head. What would you take with you if you were summoned to deal with a birth? _Thinking of this, Margaret was able to set aside her spinning thoughts and concentrate. She left all propriety behind, grasped her skirts in hand and raced up the stairs to the room John had set aside for her. She pulled her two clean shifts off their pegs, three extra sets of stockings and then looked down at what she was wearing. She'd put on a dark green petticoat and a light colored short gown over her stays.

"Your minute is almost up!" The shout came from outside. Margaret bit her lip and quickly folded the dark blue petticoat into the medicine bag as well as her extra jumps and a long gown that would go with either blue or green. She grabbed up her extra under petticoat and stepped into it, tying it off quickly and shimmying her skirts down around it. She raced back downstairs, stumbling over her twisted gown and grabbed her gray shawl from the peg beside the door. Hauling the medicine bag up over her shoulder she went to where John was standing with the children, clutching young Elizabeth to him. She pulled Mary and Edward in to a tight hug and brought their heads close to her own.

"If something bad should happen, you must take Henry and Elizabeth and run for the woods as fast as you can and hide. Get to the church as quick as you can and seek help from Reverend Beauchamp. Do you understand?" Margaret spoke in rapid whispered French, hoping against hope the children remembered their lessons.

"_Oui_." Both of the children whispered. Mary wiped a tear that streamed over her cheek. "Please don't go Margaret." She whispered back in French. "Please don't go..." Margaret kissed her cheek and held her half sister close.

"I have to...to keep you safe, I have to go." Margaret pulled Henry to her quickly kissing the top of his head. Then she turned to John. She rubbed her hand up and down Elizabeth's back trying to comfort her. He opened his other arm to her and quickly embraced her.

"I realize I might not have done you the best….but I've always considered you my own, you know that?"

"Yes I do. I know you did what you could." He set Elizabeth on the ground for a moment and removed his own coat before draping it across Margaret's shoulders. He embraced her again. Pulling her closer than he ever had he whispered in her ear.

"There is a knife in the pocket. Use it if you must—when you must. And Thank You, Margueritte. Thank You." Margaret nodded and stepped away from her family. Never had she heard John Miller utter her name using the French inflection. Since she'd stayed with his family, she'd always been sister Margaret. The gesture meant more to her than his passing over his coat. "Stay safe. Come back to us." John's voice broke as the man named Wilkins reached down and helped her up onto the horse behind him. The Butcher signaled to his men and while some stayed behind, watching the little family, the bulk of the group thundered away from the house, bearing Margaret with them.


	2. Figments

They dragoons had thundered around the curve in the road when Margaret heard a shot behind her. She wheeled on the horse and would have fallen had Mr. Wilkins not reached back with one strong arm and held her. Margaret felt his arm bump the hard lump that was the knife hidden in John's coat.

"Don't move—don't do anything brash and I won't take that knife from you." He murmured back to her. Margaret looked up over his shoulder to see him looking back at her. "Do we have an accord?"

Margaret held his gaze and nodded carefully.

"Mistress Scout!" Wilkins moved his horse forward so that they were riding even with Colonel Tavington. "I need to get to Fort Carolina with all haste." He turned his icy gaze back to her. "Know you where it is?"

"I've heard of it spoken in Georgetown." Margaret said nodding. "The Red….British Army commandeered one of the plantations and set up an outpost."

"Thank you for that wonderful history lesson. Can you get us there?" Tavington said through gritted teeth.

"It's ten miles by road. Seven through the swamps."

"Is it possible to go through the swamps this late?" Wilkins asked. Another shot rang out, followed by several more. Something screamed, the sound carrying through the still night.

"Is my family alright?" Margaret asked. She could barely make out the Colonel in the failing light and that of the torches. His gaze was steady on her, sizing her up, wondering at her mettle.

"I ordered my men to harm no member of your family. As I was already up the road way when the shot was fired I cannot be certain as to its cause." Margaret's gaze on him was just as steady. "I can however, send my men back and change my order if you feel you can be of no use to me."

"I can get you through the old swamp road and game trails. It should take less time than going round by the road, even in the dark." Margaret issued her directions to Mr. Wilkins who guided the horse expertly down the trail she indicated. Soon they were at the boggy edge of the Cyprus swamp. The men gathered at the edge, staring deep into the black waters and skeletal forest of the swamp. Margaret was thankful that the moon was rising full, giving plenty of light to see the way in the swamp.

"What's the hold up?" Tavington asked as he came up next to her and Wilkins. "Where do we go from here?"

"That way." Margaret pointed into the swamp. "I thought we might wait until the moon rises a bit higher. It will be easier to see."

"It's a trap sir. Has to be." Another man hissed. His dark eyes bore holes into Margaret.

"How can it be?" She snapped back. "I've been with you the entire time!"

"She has a point Mr. Alexander. Who could she possibly have warned?" Colonel Tavington said. "But we will not wait for the moon to rise higher." Margaret sat still a moment, measuring the extent of his resolve. He moved quickly, faster than she thought possible, and suddenly she was staring down the barrel of his gun. "I need to get to Fort Carolina and you _will _take me there now. Unless you've been lying to me in which case I dispatch you right here and let whatever loathsome creatures live in that swamp have at you." Part of her had hoped they would stop for an extended time, perhaps make camp and she could slip away into the darkness and make her way home. Apparently Colonel Tavington had other ideas.

"Go. There, beneath the Oak and into the swamp." As they passed the other dragoons Margaret finally glanced at the other men, taking in their features. "Tell the others to watch for snakes in the water." She heard the warnings issued as the others slowly followed Wilkins into the swamp. "Stay in single file!" Margaret shouted back unnecessarily. They eased their way through the swamp, taking turns at Margaret's expert directions.

"Are you certain about this?" Wilkins asked once when the moon was partially obscured by misty clouds and the shadows came together. "No quick sand?"

"I think you forget, sir, that I'm on the back of this horse too." Wilkins looked back over his shoulder. The moon peaked out from the clouds and Margaret gasped at the look on his face.

"I remembered." His words came so softly to her that she thought at first it was a trick of the wind, only she had felt his chest vibrate where her arms were wrapped around him. He turned back to the front, guiding the horse gently through the swamp. It was some time before either spoke again.

"The road sank three years ago." Margaret said quietly. "See the 'T' in that tree? That's where the road will drop a bit. It'll get easier soon enough though." Wilkins was impressed when just as she said, the water level rose and then became shallow again soon after.

"What's your name?" He asked as they plodded slowly through the swamp.

"Margaruitte St. Clair Thomas." Wilkins glanced sharply back at her when he heard the very fine French pronunciation of her name. "Most call me Margaret though."

"I'm Lieutenant James Wilkins." Margaret nodded.

"I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but under the circumstances…."

"Indeed…."

"Stop." Margaret tapped at his shoulder, urging him to bring his horse up short. She turned back to the others following them.

"What is it?" She heard Tavington snap.

"The road ahead sank more here than any other place." Margaret said. "It was below water even before everything else, so when the road sank a few years back, this stretch got even deeper. It's still passable, but only just."

"How deep will it get?" Wilkins asked.

"Ankle deep."

"The horses have been that deep—that's not so deep at all." Corporal Alexander snapped at her.

"_Our _ankles." Margaret said patiently. "Warn everyone down the line. Stay behind me exactly." She did not wait to hear if anyone questioned her, but grasped Wilkins' lapels and urged him forward. It was her job to get them through the swamp expeditiously, not molly coddle them. Wilkins edged his horse down and the black water quickly came up to just above Wilkins' ankles in the stirrup. The horses snorted at being submerged in the deep, stagnant water, but plodded onward, having firm footing beneath them. The hem of Margaret's dress dragged in the water, tugging in the slight current and movement of the horse. She held tighter to Captain Wilkins and pointed at the blazes on the trees, only barely visible in the moonlight and indicated which way to turn in the darkness. Soon the horses were scrambling up onto the drier road bed and making good time through the edges of the swamps. It took them the better part of an hour to wind their way through the dense forest at the edge of the swamp and crest a hill that allowed them a view of the surrounding area.

"There." Margaret pointed at the distant hill alight with the torches of the watch at the fort. "That's your Fort Carolina, isn't it?" Wilkins nodded back to her and waited for the rest of the men to come out of the woods behind them. The distance to the fort was covered quickly now that the column could ride in a column of two and move at greater speed. Margaret had to hold on for all she was worth as the horses thundered across the fallow farm fields and up the hill to the big house that had been commandeered as a Fort. Once inside, Colonel Tavington dismounted and handed his horse off to a groom. He marched over to where Margaret was still sitting on the back of Wilkins' horse and reached up to unceremoniously pull her down beside him.

"Come with me." Tavington snarled as he grasped her elbow and led her into what had once been a sitting room of the big house. He flung her toward a desk where ink and parchment had been spread out. "Can you write?"

"Yes." Margaret had been educated quite well. Not only could she write in English, but in French and Latin. She thought she'd best play some cards close to her chest though and kept her tri-lingualism to herself for the time being.

"What about drawing? I suppose you're at least moderately accomplished at that?" Margaret nodded.

"It depends on what I'm trying to draw…how much time I have."

"Could you accomplish drawing a map through that swamp?"

"I can try…but there are so many paths and hidden roadways. It would depend…"

"Then draw." Tavington indicated the table and practically thrust her into the chair.

"But….it's late. Can I not sleep first?"

"You may sleep, when my map is finished." He said coldly before he shut the door behind him to retire for the evening.

It was just after dawn when the Colonel entered the room to find Margaret sanding the map. Ink stained her fingertips and a spot on her cheek and over her eye, where she'd obviously rubbed at her face in an effort to stay awake. Her eyes were bloodshot , puffy, and rimmed in red—another sign of her lack of sleep. Tavington, in contrast, looked well rested, clean, and well put together, as a Colonel in his Majesty's army was supposed to. He walked over to the desk and pulled the map from the work table. Margaret watched him through burning eyes. Her head felt heavy and she felt as if she could fall asleep anywhere.

"Well, this seems a decent enough sort of map." Tavington said looking it over. Margaret rubbed her eye.

"Those are the more defined trails….there are more, but I either can't remember their exact path or wasn't sure how to draw them in."

"That's why you're coming back out with us today." Tavington smiled viscously as he grasped her elbow, much as he had done the night before, and hauled her to her feet. "You're going to take us back through the swamp and we're going to see how good your map is."

"But Sir, I'm exhausted…."

"That's too bad really." He thrust her up onto the back of Wilkins' horse and watched as she wrapped her arms around the other man's waist. "You're here to assist us as a scout. And so you shall." Tavington turned to mount his own horse, handing her crude map to another man to follow.

"Did you sleep at all?" Wilkins asked, staring back at her drawn face.

"Not a wink." She yawned and hoped her headache would go away. "Follow along. I'm not sure where the good Colonel intends to head off to today."

They rode for hours, travelling on trails marked on Margaret's map, taking trails she had not drawn, and spending the day looking at the blazes on the trees that could help the dragoons choose the correct path and which ones pointed to danger.

Pale light filtered through the cypress trees and rippled in the black water of the swamp. Margaret's eyes hurt, and something pounded steadily just behind her eyes moving outwards towards her temples. Her backside hurt as well—long hours of riding pillion was beginning to get to her. She felt the need to clutch captain Wilkins' jacket several times during the day lest she fall from the horse. The unit stopped briefly to water and rest the horses and Margaret walked to an old gnarled, yellow pine and sank to the soggy ground with exhaustion, unable to support herself. She stared blankly at the swamp, listening to the birds chirping wildly in their nests above her. It was odd to hear the sounds of sabers and the jingle of tack coupled with the natural sounds of the swamp.

"Here." Margaret turned her tired eyes up to where Colonel Tavington stood glaring down at her, but his eyes seemed slightly softer than they had any time before. He was holding a canteen out to her which she took slowly. When he didn't pull it away from her, and as the first taste of the water splashed across her tongue, she drank gratefully; taking huge gulps of the liquid. It was not as sweet as the water drawn from the well at her step father's home, but it was water none the less, and she welcomed it. "I suppose you're hungry as well." Margaret touched her sleeve to her lips, as she watched Colonel Tavington warily. He handed her a strip of jerked meat which she took without question and she passed him back his canteen after she slaked her thirst.

"Thank you." She said, just as he was beginning to turn and step away.

"I need you strong, Scout—I can't get lost in this swamp, can I?" He glared down at her, the hard look returning. "On your feet. I will not tolerate weakness."

"I wouldn't expect you to." If not for the slight pause in his stride, Margaret might not have known whether or not he'd heard her. He issued quick orders to his men and once again, they were on their way. The sun was painting the sky summer peach when they returned to the Fort. Margaret slipped gratefully into the arms of a groom who came to assist her. She straightened as Colonel Tavington came close, unwilling to show him weakness.

"As a male scout, I'd have given you lodgings with the men, however, since you are a woman, you pose a minor problem in the area of housing." She disliked the way he stared down his nose at her, his smug expression. She was too tired to deal with him though.

"I can sleep in the stable loft—given half a chance I'd lie down right here in the yard and fall asleep and be grateful for it."

"Well then, take a space in the loft." Tavington turned away and did not give her a second thought. Margaret stood, rooted to the spot and stared absently around her taking in the swirling mass of horseflesh and the crimson of the uniformed dragoons. The sounds of tack, horses, and hooves on the hard earth combined with shouted orders assailed her ears. The damp earthy smells of mud and hay combined with the fouler smells of waste, both human and equine. _What a place this is…._

"Miss Thompson?"

"Mrs. Thomas." She said it without thinking about it. Her married name. The name of her dead husband. She turned to the man who had spoken to her.

"Mrs.?"

"Widowed. I'm the Widow Thomas. My husband has been dead quite some time now." She thought the man's name might have been Edwards or Edmonds, but she wasn't sure. They all looked so alike to her.

"Captain Wilkins sent me to check on you….are you alright Miss—Missus?"

"I think so." Margaret turned from the man and walked towards the stable. She stumbled towards the stout ladder that lead up to the loft, tripping over her petticoats as she struggled to reach the top of the ladder. She fell into the first pile of hay she saw and fell into a heavy sleep.

Margaret awoke the next morning feeling stiff and sore. She climbed carefully from the loft and stepped into the summer morning.

"Good morning ma'am." One of the men called from a fire not too far away. "Lovely morning. Hungry?" The man had the decency not to ask if she'd slept well. He could tell by her stiff gait and bleary eyes and pale color that though she'd slept hard, she'd not been well rested.

"I'm starving, actually." Margaret thought back to the jerked meat and water she'd had the day before, and how that had been the only thing she'd had to eat since she'd broken her fast at John's farm house the morning before. _Is that really all I've eaten these past few days?_ She thought as she sat down beside the man's cook fire. He offered her a bowl of gruel and a slice of fried salt pork. She forced herself to eat slowly knowing that filling her belly too fast too soon would make her sick just as much as not eating at all. Besides that, the gruel sat heavily in her stomach and the salt pork made her thirsty.

"We're sure to ride out again today, probably not so far as yesterday though. Men and horses need a break."

"Why? What is the purpose of these senseless forays into the swamp?"

"We hunt a ghost." The man whispered. He leaned forward, drawing Margaret in conspiratorially. "A man who disappears into the mists and swamps and goes places we cannot follow. The Colonel is obsessed with it." Margaret handed the man the bowl back and stared into the white ash as the rest of the camp came to life around them. In the course of a little less than three days she'd had little to no sleep, little food and her life had been flipped upside down by a man who was, with little doubt in her mind, completely insane. The horses were being led out and men were beginning to mount up. Margaret saw Colonel Tavington stalk across the yard and mount his big black. She slowly approached the growing cluster of men in red and waited to be acknowledged.

"Ah, mistress scout, so good of you to join us this morning." Margaret looked up at Colonel Tavington, his scarlet coat was brushed and clean, his tall dragoon helmet perched perfectly atop his head which had nary a hair out of place. His boots shone so brightly that Margaret was certain she'd be able to see her own disheveled reflection perfectly in the black leather. A sudden wave of anger passed over her for when she looked into Colonel Tavington's ice blue eyes she saw a challenge laid before her. He _wanted _her to fail—to break—to show a weakness. _He's daring me._ She would take up his challenge, _and win._

"Indeed Colonel, and a beautiful morning it would seem to be." She relished the momentary look of shock that passed over his eyes at her cheery response. "Whose company do I get to keep today?"

"You'll ride with Captain Wilkins again." Tavington snapped as he spurred his horse forward and out the gates of the fort.

They once again spent the whole day out riding the back roads and questioning the inhabitants of an area. If someone gave out useful information—something about the Colonel's ghost—Tavington would have Margaret attempt to follow the lead to the next destination. Slowly Margaret began to build a different sort of map in her head, in which, quadrant by quadrant, they hunted the ghost each day.

And each day Margaret came closer and closer to the conclusion that what they hunted was swamp fog and fairy stories. For truly, as everyone over the age of seven knew, there was no such thing as ghosts.


	3. Roots

Margaret had spent five days at the hill fort with the dragoons before she was granted a brief respite from the daily rides. The Colonel was securing her a horse of her own and he saw no reason to tire his own men's horses by forcing them to carry double the weight. A battle was near and the men of the dragoons needed their horses to be in the best of shape if they were to see them through the battle. The first three days had been the roughest on her mind and body, but the past two days had given her the rest she so desperately needed. She strolled around the yard, taking in the interior of the Fort and watching the men. Some of them diced, others seemed to be writing letters or seeing to their equipment. One man was struggling to repair a tear in his coat. She ambled over to where he sat at the mouth of his tent, struggling with needle and thread.

"Would you like some help with that?" The man looked up and nodded, shrugging helplessly at the mess in his lap.

"My wife was the seamstress…not I." Margaret took the needle and jacket and began to slowly stitch the tear in the coat.

"Do you miss her?" she asked as she set neat even stitches into the facing of the jacket. "Is she in England or a Colonist?"

"She was English. Died in the childbed….her and the babe."

"I'm so sorry." Margaret stopped sewing a moment and looked up at the man. "I'm so terribly sorry…I didn't mean to pry."

"It's alright, you've done no harm." The man smiled at her. "How were you to know unless you asked?" Margaret finished sewing quietly. She wasn't sure she wanted to know these men. She didn't want them knowing a lot about her. The English and French were rivals; she'd heard the rumors of French support for this Colonial uprising. What if they hated that she had French blood running in her veins? Margaret leaned over the coat and bit off the end of the thread before handing coat, needle and spool back to the man. He ran an appreciative hand over the stitching and then grinned at her.

"Thank You."

"It was nothing."

"I have nothing to give you in return…no money or anything."

"Please…" Margaret cut the man off. "It was nothing. Don't worry yourself." She rose and walked farther across the yard, and looked up at the great house that had been the plantation home of the Braddock family.

'It's a grand old place." Captain Wilkins said coming up behind her. "Have you ever been inside?"

"No—I've never been in the big house. Just one of the tenant's cots down a ways." Margaret indicated a small cluster of structures at the base of the hill that had been a sort of tradesman's village.

"Would you care to go inside then?" Wilkins indicated the big house with a sweep of his long arm.

"Could I?" Margaret's face lit up at the offer.

"Of course. I'd be happy to escort you." Margaret took the Captain's arm as he led her into the front hall.

"I suppose I have been inside." Margaret said as they entered the drawing room. "The Colonel brought me here that first night to draw the map. I was so exhausted…it seemed a dream."

"But did you get a good look at the room?"

"No. I was concentrating so hard on that map." Margaret walked over to the desk and ran her finger along the spine of one of the quills. "That and not falling asleep in the ink well."

Several of the rooms were unoccupied. Others bustled with activity as clerks and valets ran errands and kept lists of supplies and troops and orders. After they'd glanced in every room and admired the home for what it had been, she and Captain Wilkins exited out the back of the house and out the gate of the fort. She led the way to a large oak just down the hill from the palisade.

"Edwards said you're a widow?"

"Yes."

"How long ago did your husband pass?"

"Two…no, Three years ago." Margaret sat on one of the heavy roots and leaned back against the tree.

"You seem young to be a widow."

"There are many young widows, what with the war on and all." Margaret glanced up at the soldier standing beside her. "And you? Do you leave a wife or sweetheart behind, wondering at your safety?"

"No. There's no one to worry about me." Wilkins said with a small smile.

"Why the dragoons?"

"My farm was doing poorly. I felt it was my part to fight for king and country." Margaret looked out over the green fields as the sun sank towards the distant horizon. "The first night, in the swamp….when you told me your name…." Wilkins started and then fell silent. Margaret sat perfectly still, waiting for a question she wasn't sure she wanted to answer. "Are you French?"

"My Grandfather was." Margaret answered. "My mother as well I suppose, though she remembered so little of France. I was the first generation born here." Margaret pushed herself up and brushed her hands off. "Is my heritage a problem?"

"No ma'am." Wilkins said with a slight bow. "Are you fluent in French?"

"mais oui." Margaret answered. "Latin aussi."  
"Latin too?" Wilkins nodded "you're quite full of surprises."

"If only you knew." Margaret went back towards the fort, Captain Wilkins followed behind.

"You don't like talking about yourself."

"I'm not very good at it." Margaret entered the fort and began a slow walk around the inner wall. "What do you care? Why do you want to know about me?"

"I want to know more about the woman who's been sharing my horse and clinging to my coat." James Wilkins said, standing unnervingly close and pressing her back against the wall of the stockade. "I want to know who it is that has joined us. I want to know why a woman would volunteer to leave her home and family to ride with us."

"Perhaps in time I could share those things with you. But I trust you about as much as you trust me." Margaret moved around the Captain and continued her slow walk. "In time, Captain."

"Bon Soire, Madam." James Wilkins bowed to the mysterious woman who'd been with them almost a week and who he still knew so little about.

* * *

That evening Margaret thought about the last twenty years of her life and what had brought her to this particular juncture.

Her Grandfather had been one of the many French Huguenots who had fled France and gone to the new world. Once he'd established a small cabin on a parcel of land, he called for his wife and young daughter, Vivienne, to join him. The religious freedom the family experienced was a relief, but the completely different environment was not. It took them a long time to learn the flora of their new home and to carve out their niche of Carolina above the city of Charlestown. Margueritte's mother married a trader who frequented their little home. Vivienne often told Margueritte of the love match she'd made with her father and how strong he'd been. He'd carved out a small holding for what he had hoped would become a large and happy family. But being a trader, he knew the swamps like the back of his hand and was called to act as a scout for the French. Margaret remembered little of the man except for a loud laugh and a quick smile. He died at a fort, far from home, and left his wife and young daughter to survive on their own in the swamp. Margaret's mother did what she could as a healer and midwife for the settlers on the fringe of the world. But soon, life in the swamp grew too difficult and Margaret's mother moved from the only home Margaret had ever known to the big city of Charlestown. Margaret's mother was beautiful and refined. She spoke French and Latin and was a remarkable dancer and singer. Almost instantly Madam St. Clair was hired on to be a governess to a wealthy family in the city. Margaret was allowed to stay on as the girl's companion. Annabelle Rutledge and Margaret St. Clair were inseparable for ten years. Both girls grew up speaking French quite fluently and studied Latin texts and the classics. While Annabelle had a passion for art and drawing, Margaret had a passion for the outdoors and for learning the plants and the healing arts of her grandmother. Margaret was eleven when her mother and John Miller married. It was no love match, but Vivienne St. Clair had taught the girls all she could and was little more than a chaperone. She left her daughter in the care of the Rutledge family and moved with her new husband to his farm in the west, very close to where she had lived with her first husband. Margaret was permitted to stay on with Annabelle, learning social graces, dancing, and how to keep a home. But when the girls turned fourteen, Annabelle was contracted to marry a business acquaintance of her father; an acquaintance who happened to live in England. Annabelle was prepared to go to the continent while Margaret was to be forced to remain behind. Suddenly, the family that Margaret had considered an extension of her own was treating her as a burden and a nuisance. John Miller, at the behest of Vivienne, asked that the Rutledge's contract Margaret a marriage—since they were too far from the city to do so themselves.

The Rutledges chose Ezekial Thomas as Margaret's husband. Married quickly in the Meeting House church, Margaret was almost fifty years her husband's junior. Fortunately for her (at least in her mind) she was not expected to bear the man any more children than he already had by his five previous wives. He spent most of his time in his shipping office, or taking stock of what was brought to the docks. Margaret was only expected to keep the house in working order. But Ezekial's business was not as affluent as was originally expected and Margaret was forced to make do with little to no money. She refused to borrow, something she'd learned from her grandfather at an early age, and there were nights when the Thomas' stew was watery and thin. Those were nights Ezekial drank to excess and went out to the taverns to find himself doxies and fritter away what little money there was to be had. Eventually Ezekial fell ill, and no amount of herbs, poultices, or leechings would help the man recover. He died two years after they'd been married.

That's when Margaret's life was thrust into chaos again. With sixteen children from five previous marriages, there were many claimants to the business, the house, and the furnishings. People snickered as Margaret walked up the street behind her husband's coffin. "The Widow Thomas" was younger than his children. Though her claim to the 'fortune' through marriage was sound, he'd not written her into his will. Margaret stayed in the Widow's cottage on the city property when the eldest of Ezekial's children moved his family into the modestly sized home. Margaret tried to feed herself and make a living selling soaps, herbs and oils and trading French lessons for food at some of the bigger homes. Eventually her environment became so hostile that she wrote to Vivienne to allow her to come and live with the growing Miller clan. It came as quite a shock for John to write her back, telling her of her mother's death and his request that she come and live with him to help with the children.

Margaret left Charlestown and went to live with her stepfather. Her mother had died giving birth to Elizabeth. But though John needed help with the children, he seemed uneasy having Margaret in his home. She was an outsider, born to a different type of living and upbringing than he could imagine. He kept a tight rein on his household and would brook no arguments from anyone. When Margaret wanted to teach the children Latin, John balked, saying it was good enough that they read and write in the King's English.

And so, for three years, Margaret had been an outsider in her stepfather's home. She continued to make herbal remedies for the people in the area and went out as the area mid-wife when people had a need of it.

"You are a seventh generation midwife, ma petite." Her mother had told her at a young age. "You are the third generation of Perranoux's to issue care on this continent Margaruitte, you must do us all proud."

In the dark and stillness of the dragoon camp, Margaret was forced to wonder-would this make her Perranoux ancestors proud?


	4. Gathering Information

Margaret was slow to open up to the Dragoons she found herself living with, but slowly she got to know some of them, no matter how hard she tried not to. She ate with them in the mornings and at night. In sharing their fire and food, she learned about their homes, their families, their hopes and their dreams. They ceased to be a group of faceless dragoons and became individual men. Between meals, Margaret rode out with the dragoons, showing them the lesser known trails and helping them to forage.

But to them, she was still a mystery. She might eat with them, but she shared little about her life. They knew she was a widow and that she'd come with them to scout and guide them through the swamps. They'd seen her fearlessness in standing up to Colonel Tavington that night at her stepfather's farm and they'd seen her push through exhaustion and fatigue at the Colonel's behest. On more than one occasion, she'd shown knowledge of the plants and mosses, saving the dragoons' lives. But they knew nothing _of _her; she never opened up to them or told them stories of her life before the army, and though this bothered some of the men, others merely took it in stride.

Scout, Guide, Forage, Rest.

Every so often reports would come in of "The Ghost" and the dragoons would speed out looking for them.

Scout, Guide, Forage, Rest. Chase the Ghost.

Margaret's life was predictable, grueling, and dirty. At times when she was not needed in the field, she laundered clothes for the men at the fort, mended coats and trousers and helped tend a small kitchen garden for the officers' mess. It was late in the season, but she hoped that some of the vegetables would be large enough to harvest before the autumn truly set in.

* * *

On one of the many off days, she and a few dragoons went to Morristown to trade. She went to the crossroads tavern to trade for some whiskey and some other ingredients for making beer up at the fort. While she was waiting on the bar keep to bring her purchases she overheard a man speaking to a small group at the other end of the bar.

"You'll get to keep or sell back the muskets and gear of any lobster backs you kill." The man told his comrades. Margaret glanced around the barrel of ale that was set up on top of the bar and looked at the men, memorizing faces. "The Colonel will train you up to fight good and then we'll pick them red coats off in the swamps, like shooting fish in a barrel." Margaret eased away from the bar and made it to the side door without alerting anyone that she had been there. She skirted the side of a mercantile and made for the black smith's shop where Private Edwards and Corporal Hastings were discussing the finer arts of the trade and getting another of the dragoons' pistols repaired. She grasped Corporal Hastings sleeve and brought him round to face her.

"I overheard some men in the pub. They were talking about recruiting for a unit of men."

"So?"

"So they were talking about picking off red coats quick as you please. Using the cover of the swamps." Private Edwards, one of her frequent mess mates had turned and was listening intently to the conversation.

"The Ghost?" He whispered. Margaret shrugged.

"I'm not sure, but it didn't sound like they were up to honest business." The two dragoons went to the tavern and after a brief altercation, the conspirators were dragged from the tavern and brought back to Fort Carolina to be tried for treason.

* * *

Late that night, Margaret was visited by Colonel Tavington and Captain Borden. They interrogated her about how she had discovered the men in the tavern and whether she'd be willing to do it again.

"You mean spy?" Margaret stared the Colonel down. His eyes sparked cold fire in the evening light, excited at the prospect of finally catching up to his ghost.

"Spy is such a harsh term." The Colonel sounded as if he were scolding a slow child. "Consider it more….gathering information."

"Last time I checked, that was the definition of spying." Margaret stabbed her needle angrily into a shirt she was repairing. "A thistle cannot be called a rose just because it grows in the garden."

"A rose growing on the road side is just as beautiful as the one in the garden and we make no bones about it." Tavington snapped back. "A woman is far less suspect than a man. They won't be looking for you."

"I seriously doubt those men are looking for a woman when they're shooting at red coats." She said glaring up at the Colonel. "I'm just as likely to be shot as you out there. More so if I'm caught spying."

"Then you'll have no regrets about stopping these men before they have a chance to cause us trouble. Think of it as saving your own skin; increasing your chances of survival in the swamps." Margaret stared at the Colonel for a long moment.

"It's also a convenient way for you to get rid of me….if the worst should happen."

"You are intelligent. I'll give you that." Tavington stood and strolled around to her side of the fire. His gloved hand landed heavily on her shoulder. "But I have no doubt that an intelligent girl like you would be able to get out of any trouble she might find herself in, yes?" With a painful squeeze to her shoulder he walked away into the darkness, Captain Borden following in his shadow.

* * *

And so Margaret went from scout, to spy. Mostly she just listened at taverns or on trading forays. Usually it turned nothing up. Other times, she was given a few pounds to take with her to take up a room at an inn and listen for gossip on the Ghost. Those nights she relished since it meant at least one evening in a real bed…straw ticking and bed bugs aside. Most evenings her spying came to naught. Other nights, she managed to gather a good deal of information and bring it back to the Colonel. If she had information, she lit a candle and set it on the windowsill. A dragoon placed in the woods would see it and the two would meet when Margaret left the inn under the premise of using the necessary. She'd relay the message and if Colonel Tavington thought it good enough, he might raid the inn or use the information to his advantage to ambush the rebels.

One such evening Margaret walked her horse slowly in to a cross road inn. A dirty boy at the stables took her horse from her to be fed and watered down. Margaret took her satchel and slung it over her shoulder walking slowly across the yard. There were many horses tied up outside and the noise coming from behind the structure, where the kitchens were, indicated that the tavern would be quite busy. She took a deep breath and stepped inside, prepared to do as she had done numerous times before. The instant she was inside she began to regret ever saying she'd spy for colonel Tavington. Every eye in the room turned to her and every eye was not only unfriendly, but lascivious. She rushed to a table close to the wall and sat in shadow watching the room carefully.

"What's a pretty little miss like you doing here?" One man asked, coming and leaning heavily on the table. "This ain't no place for you."

"I'm on my way to Acworth." She said, sipping at the beer the inn keeper had brought to her table. It was strong and bitter tasting. "My sister lives near there and is near her time."

"Her time for what?"

"Bringing another screaming brat into the world, you brainless oaf." Another man shouted. "Only Acworth has their own Midwife….crazy old bat lives out in the swamps I'd heard."

"My sister asked for me to come. She lost her first babe….she trusts me more than that crazy swamp woman." The men left her alone for the rest of the night until she turned in. Since no one had trusted to speak with her, with the exception of a woman asking for advice on her own impending delivery, she did not set a candle on the window ledge of the common sleeping room that evening. She lay down in a bed she was sharing with two other female travelers and heard other inn patrons treading past. She dozed off some time after midnight until she heard the big door slam shut. She could barely make out the voices from the big room below, but figured anything going on this late must surely be nefarious. She lit off the stub of candle and set it on the window ledge, hoping a dragoon was still posted outside the inn. She quietly put her stockings and shoes on and pulled her gown over her head. One of the women stirred.

"Put that light out…." The old woman grumbled.

"Sorry, just making a trip to the necessary…." Margaret snatched the candle away from the window ledge and made her way to the hall. She doused the flame and then crept to the head of the stairs, standing on the edge of the shadow left by the light from the hearth in the big room.

"We need more men, if any of you desire to join our ranks, please, speak now." Margaret listened as details were discussed, bounties promised and marks made in the recruitment books. Slowly she eased down the stairs and out the back door to make her way towards the necessary. She looked behind her to be sure no one had seen her or decided to follow her and then made her way into the deeper woods. She tried to be quiet, but the dry brush grasped her skirts and dead branches snapped beneath her feet. There was no moon shining and every shadow hid the threat of something ominous. She nearly bumped into Corporal Alexander before he was able to warn her of his location. She quickly told him of what was transpiring in the main room.

"Will you be able to make it back alright?" He asked as he cinched the saddle tight and made ready to tell the Colonel and bring the rest of the dragoons.

"I'm sure I'll be fine." Margaret waited until she couldn't hear the sound of horse and rider anymore and then made her way back to the inn. The men were still talking when she returned. She tried to sneak back up the stairs as quietly as she'd come down them, but the bottom step groaned beneath her weight and the men turned as one to see her standing there.

"Who are you?" Asked a man she didn't recognize. "What are you doing up and about?"

"I was just out…" Margaret pointed over her shoulder towards the door that lead out back.

"At this hour?" The man stalked towards her. "Meeting up with a lover my dear?"

"Hardly." Margaret's spine stiffened at the effrontery of the man. "Is it a crime to have to relieve oneself in the middle of the night? And who are you to interrogate me? You are not the inn keeper."

"But I am, and you'll keep a civil tongue in that head of your'n if you plan on returning to the bed I rented you." Margaret swallowed as she glanced at the big barman who was smoking his pipe at the table beside the hearth.

"I meant no offense to your…_guests._" Margaret dipped a curtsy, keeping a wary eye on the man who still approached her. "I'm for Acworth in the morning and have a long day ahead of me if I'm to get there before my sister goes in to labor. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me." Margaret turned and had barely moved when the man darted forward and grabbed her. He clutched her wrist and pulled her down the stairs, dragging her across the floor.

"Who are you?" Margaret tried to stand up but the man forced her back down into the chair. "I asked you a question. Who are you? Why are you going to Acworth?" The man roared. Margaret stared up at him, defiantly refusing to give her name.

"Said her sister is breeding in Acworth." The barkeep spat tobacco onto the floor as he carved a stick of wood. "Didn't ever say her name though….I didn't ever ask."

"She will now by God, or I'll…" Suddenly doors were kicked open and a flood of crimson tore through the tavern. Margaret ducked as the smell of gunpowder was thick in the air and several pistols fired close to her. She covered her ears as she bent low over her knees and kept her eyes on what was happening. She saw the man who had been questioning her fall at her feet, a knife skittered across the floor. Margaret was half out of the chair when someone's arms wrapped around her waist, dragging her towards the door.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Margaret screamed, kicking and clawing at the arm that grasped her. Suddenly she was flung against the outer wall of the inn, her head slamming against the siding painfully.

"Stop struggling, harpy." Margaret froze as she heard Colonel Tavington's harsh words. "Are you alright?"

Margaret quit struggling and Tavington allowed her to take a few steps away from the inn. She nodded slowly in the darkness as her fear subsided, even as the noises from within continued. "A bit bruised…" she was interrupted when the door crashed open beside them and several men rushed out heading towards the horses. The first man bowled into them, turning Margaret into the light from within the Tavern and taking a good look at her face, the second man tried to strike Colonel Tavington, but the Colonel was armed and shot the man point blank in the gut. The man fell, with an agonized groan as the others raced past.

"English Bitch…" the man that had grasped Margaret thrust her away from him towards the colonel as he reloaded his pistol. Margaret flailed, trying to avoid hitting the Colonel. He paused in the process of loading his pistol long enough to catch her up and push her behind him. A pistol flashed in the darkness and before the ball could find its mark, Margaret found herself flat on her back in the hard dirt of the tavern yard, the Colonel's weight on top of her and the air knocked from her lungs. Her hair had come loose and had tangled around her shoulders. She felt the Colonel's fingers slide through the tangled mass a few times, gently easing the tangles from the lock of hair that he'd momentarily had under his hand. Margaret struggled to breath – she couldn't see his face—or read what was going through his mind. He was merely a shadow, darker than the blackness of the yard. She could feel his breaths, coming quickly, against her cheek, and the rise and fall of his chest as it pressed into hers.

"Colonel?" Tavington's grip tightened on her shoulder and she thought she saw him shake his head.

"Were you hit?" He kept his voice low in the darkness. The word _intimate_ came to Margaret's mind.

"No….no I'm alright." Margaret stuttered. She felt, rather than heard the Colonel heave a sigh.

"Good. Stay away from the building. Stay out of sight and don't come inside until one of the dragoons come out for you."

"Colonel Tavington?" The voice sounded again from the doorway. The Colonel's weight suddenly lifted and Margaret saw his shadow disappear into the square of light that was the inn door. She sat up slowly, dusting her hands on her dress and then rising up, she looked around for a good place to stay that wouldn't be in the middle of the yard. She settled for the low branch of an angel oak, the ancient branches sprawling close to the ground. Margaret shivered in the cold yard, she heard screaming, gun fire, and furniture crashing within the inn, but knew she was safe outside. She heard what she thought were grunts and groans and watched as one by one the plotters were hauled out of the inn and forced to kneel in the dirt.

_Bedlam…this is madness!_ She thought as she watched one of the dragoons strike one of the plotters in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. She gasped as the man slumped forward unconscious and turned away. _This is all my fault._

* * *

Hours later, in the pale light of dawn, the dragoons were preparing to leave the inn. Four bodies hung from the tree in front of the inn—the same tree Margaret had gone to while waiting out the skirmish. The bodies would serve as a warning to all travelers on the cross roads not to associate with the Ghost or his men.

"We'll split up." Tavington announced. "Since the information we got was not only conflicted but is probably unreliable, I think it best to send men on both routes back to the fort." Margaret tried to hide a yawn behind her hand but failed. "Tired Mrs. Thomas?"

"I'll be well enough, Colonel." He knew that she hadn't slept; he'd seen her watching the interrogations from the corner of the tavern once they'd started hauling the men inside.

"Good, you'll be with me then." Margaret followed the men who followed Colonel Tavington, briefly admiring the precision with which the men divided themselves. She shook her head as her tired brain repeatedly conjured up images of the chaos of the evening before. She had to stay alert if she was going to keep up with the dragoons.


	5. Ambush

Margaret's head snapped up and she looked around blearily. She'd never been one to fall asleep on horseback, but the gentle gait they'd fallen into had lulled her into a shallow slumber. It took her a moment to recognize where she was and what had happened. Her mouth felt dry and cottony and she licked at her dry lips. The man beside her snickered and tried to hide it by turning it into a cough.

"I'm so glad I can be of amusement." She muttered crossly, rolling her head back and forth trying to ease the tightness that was shooting down her back and between her shoulder blades.

"Sorry Mrs. Thomas." The man smiled at her. He handed her his canteen, which she drank from gratefully. "You're a rare one you are."

"Rare one?" Margaret shook her head as she took another deep drink from the canteen. "I'm not sure what you mean by that."

"Most women would have fainted dead away seeing the Colonel ride up to their house by torch light, threatening to kill folks, but not you." The man shook his head. "You? You volunteer to come with the man, ride and scout for him…show us how to live off the fat of land many of us had never seen before." He waved a hand at the narrow road they were riding upon and gestured towards the swamp. "A few short months ago, I'd have been terrified of riding here….seeing them tree beards wagging and the noises coming from yonder. But not now as Mrs. Thomas is riding beside me."

Margaret shook her head and stifled an indelicate laugh. They had no idea how terrified she had been last night. There were things she could do and things she couldn't.

And then there were the things she ought not do and yet still did anyway.

Like spying. Or riding with British Dragoons. Or keeping a name she detested and had no right to use.

"I'd rather go back to my maiden name. I hate being the widow Thomas." She said, indelicately wiping the water dripping from the corner of her mouth. She could not tell this man, or risk others over hear that she was afraid, or that she didn't want to spy. Information like that was sure to get back to Colonel Tavington. Then he might find he had no use for her and kill her. Or go back to the Miller Farm and kill her family; if they yet lived. Margaret had tried her best not to think of the gun shots she'd heard after they had left the farm. When her thoughts wandered towards that dark path, Margaret diverted it by thinking of her less than happy marriage. In doing so, she'd come to several conclusions. She hadn't liked the man, and he'd given her nothing when he'd died. Her husband's name had never done her any good. Her life had not been easy, but it had at least held some promise before her marriage. The last few years, she felt as if she'd been standing still and the world had passed poor Widow Thomas by. Perhaps if she ceased being the Widow Thomas, she could get a new start. _Why not start now?_ "Would it be so horrible for you all to call me Miss St. Claire, or Margaret even?"

"I suppose not. If that's what you'd prefer?" Margaret handed the man his canteen back with a nod. "Well then Miss St. Claire, it will be my pleasure to spread the word." Margaret smiled back at the man riding beside her and they continued on in companionable silence, a great weight seeming to lift from her shoulders.

_I am not the Widow Thomas. Not anymore. I am Margaret St. Claire. Margueritte St. Claire, but they mustn't know I'm of French decent…._

The black trees on either side of the road stretched into the muggy heat of the day and the beards of Spanish moss shifted in the gentle breeze. The only sounds were that of the swamp birds, the soft clink of tack and saber and the gentle 'clomp' of hooves into the sandy dirt. It truly was a lovely afternoon, with soft white clouds drifting across a blue sky. Leaves were just starting to change color, the greens of spring and summer just starting to give way to reds and yellows of early autumn. Margaret absent mindedly made a list of what she would need to start collecting or harvesting as the autumn approached. Certain plants would be good for treating winter flus and frost bite. Others would be bearing fruit she'd need to dry to make teas, or roots would need to be dug up before the winter freeze came and the ground became too hard to unearth them.

_Feverfew, spotted jewelweed, moss, rosehips, milkweed, mustard seed, onion root if it can be found, the pumpkins could stand to stay on the vine through the end of next month if it doesn't get too cold…._

BANG! POP! WHIZZ-SPLAT! BANG!

Margaret's catalogue of plants and inventory of the small garden at the fort was interrupted as the swamp erupted in noise and smoke. She pulled her horse up as the man riding in front of her was blown from his saddle. Margaret stared down at his prone body as blood seeped from his chest, his brown eyes dull and lifeless. More shots rang out in the swamp and she heard someone cry out in alarm. She turned, watching as the dragoons attempted to locate the men shooting at them, only visible by muzzle flashes through the smoke of the initial volley. Her horse pawed at the sandy ground and backed away from the smell of blood, tossing its head in fear. Margaret kept a firm hand on the reins and tried to figure out what she should do, her sleep deprived brain working slowly to assess what was happening around her. Part of her wanted to run and never look back, another part of her wanted to help the men that had become her friends.

Her mind wandered as she traced the path of that particular thought…._Friends._ When had these men stopped being a mass of faceless dragoons? When had she started thinking of them as friends? Her attention was yanked back to the present as a gun discharged very close to her, the man who had been riding at her side firing his pistol at a barely visible man in the swamps to her right.

_Focus! Think!_

She glanced into the woods beside the road and could see men moving amongst the trees, dressed in drab browns and grays it was like watching forest spirits moving back and forth in the smoke from the muskets. She kneed her horse, trying to urge it forward, but riderless horses raced and bucked, and her horse could make no forward progress. The dragoons were caught in crossfire, with rebels on both sides of the road. Used to open fields, the cavalrymen were at a severe disadvantage. Margaret was still trying to understand what was going on around her and coax her horse into moving when the animal suddenly screamed and reared, pawing at the air in front of it and fighting the bit in its mouth. Margaret was thrown from the animal and hit the ground hard as the animal came down beside her, pawing and screaming in pain. Margaret lay still, all of the air in her body whooshed out and it took her several minutes of gasping to regain her senses. Sound seemed to come from far away and she thought she heard a cheer go up. Slowly she was able to roll onto her stomach and get a full breath into her lungs. She looked over the body of her horse and saw the rebels come out of the woods, knives and muskets in hand.

_Get up! Move! _

Margaret shook off her confusion and tried to rise, but found it difficult to get all her limbs moving in concert. Her legs tangled in her skirts— a part of which were stuck beneath her horse. Grasping the material in both hands she pulled as hard as she could and heard the material tear. Rolling, she managed to free herself and crawl away from her dead horse. Margaret pushed her hair from her face and watched as the rebels continued to rush from the swamp, yelling and shouting and creating more confusion with noise than with their actions. She watched as one of the rebels made his way directly towards where she was still kneeling in the middle of the road. He seemed vaguely familiar to her and it took her only a moment to realize it was the man who had called her a bitch the night before.

_Run!_

Her foot caught on the trailing edge of her ripped hem as she tried to rise up, and she fell to the sandy ground again. Not far away lay a dragoon, a horrible hole in the middle of his forehead. Frantically she crawled towards him, not trusting herself to stand again. Lead flew through the air around her and slammed into the ground nearby, casting up sprays of sand and dirt into her eyes.

"Oh no you don't!" Someone muttered behind Margaret; she screamed as someone latched onto her ankle and pulled her roughly backwards. She rolled to her back and looked up into the face of the rebel soldier towering over her. One swift kick and she managed to dislodge his hold on her long enough to scramble away. Her hand slammed down on something sharp but she didn't have time to think about it. She reached out and grasped the gun that the dead dragoon had been holding when he died. She fumbled to pry the gun out of his cold, dead hand and rolled over to aim the gun at the man advancing on her.

_Please be loaded. Please be loaded._

The hammer clicked down on an empty barrel, but the rebel fell anyway as the air filled with the percussion of a shot fired nearby. Margaret turned and saw Colonel Tavington reloading a smoking pistol as he fought his way through the confusion towards her. The Colonel's icy gaze focused on another rebel, never pausing in the reloading process. The Colonel fired, and the rebel fell.

"Withdraw!" One of the men in brown and gray shouted. Almost at once, the men faded into the swamp and disappeared. Margaret looked around at the carnage and the mayhem of screaming horses and injured men. Her legs shook and felt as if they would not support her if she rose. Slowly, she struggled to rise up to her knees and remained there a moment as her vision swam and her balance wavered. Someone grasped her arm and hauled her roughly to her feet, holding on lest she fall.

"Scout!" The sudden shout so near at hand, accompanied by an emphatic shake brought her attention to bear on Colonel Tavington. "Are you alright?"

Margaret looked around, still shocked by the scenes of battle, and then shook her head. "I don't know." Tavington dragged her towards his own horse whose reins were tangled in a pine tree near the side of the road. "Fine I think." She finally managed. She pulled her arm from his too tight grasp and dug her heels into the sandy ground, "I'm fine!" She practically shouted, glaring at the Colonel. She was not a ninny, nor was she a ragdoll that could be dragged hither and yon.

"Well I'm very glad to hear it." The Colonel snapped at her as he checked the cinch on his saddle. "Will you be able to ride by yourself?"

"I believe so." Tavington brushed past her and found another horse standing calmly nearby. He boosted Margaret up into the saddle and then looked to be sure his men were following suit. Many were trying to get the dead off the road as well as helping the wounded re-mount. They left the area as quickly as possible—only a few of the dragoons had been willing to chase the rebels into the swamp where they had faded like so much fog and even they were returning, being unwilling to get cut off from the others.

* * *

The going was slow, what with all the wounded and Margaret was thankful for it. Her hands shook violently and the more she thought about the attack, the more she noticed aches and pains that she hadn't noticed in the immediate aftermath. She let the reins go slack in her right hand, her left hurt too badly to move it or grasp the reins and for the first time she looked down at the deep gash crossing her palm. She vaguely remembered pain, but she couldn't remember what had caused it…a saber? A spur? Hot lead? While she muddled through the events of the day, the horse plodded on, content to follow its comrades.

The sky that had been so blue in the early afternoon slowly darkened to a watery gray and then to slate as thunder rolled in the distance. The wind picked up and blew colder than before, and bore with it the unmistakable scent of rain.

_Anything but rain….please God, not rain._

But Margaret's prayers were not to be answered, and the sky soon opened up and began to pelt the dragoons with cold, hard, rain.

"We'll stop here for now." Tavington called back to his bedraggled men. He sent two un-injured men ahead to bring back aid and wagons to transport the wounded. Margaret rode her horse off the road and into the trees bordering a fallow field where the others were attempting to make a camp. Her hands still shook, whether from cold or shock she wasn't sure. She remained mounted and watched as several of the men got some crude shelters set up and began to get the wounded settled beneath them.

"Do you plan on staying atop that horse all night?" Margaret nearly leapt out of her skin hearing the Colonel's voice come from so close. She looked down and saw he was standing at her stirrup. "Or is it that you've lost your wits and can't remember how to dismount?" It took her a moment to shake the fog from her brain but was eventually able to respond.

"I haven't forgotten." Margaret's teeth chattered as she slipped clumsily from the saddle, falling into the Colonel upon touching the ground.

"There's no need to throw yourself at me." His voice was cold but when she looked into his eyes, she saw he was amused.

"Do not laugh at me Colonel—I cannot seem to bring myself to stand." She was grasping the lapels of his coat with her right hand and had curled the fingers of her left hand into her palm, lest she bleed all over his fine red coat. Blood had soaked into the sleeve of her dress and she tried to step away from the Colonel. Her head swam and she almost fell again.

"Oh?" Colonel Tavington looked down at the girl he held and saw pain crease her features. "You're hurt?"

He felt her try to twist away from him as she muttered beneath her breath. She very nearly toppled into a mud puddle.

"Come, let's see what you've done…" Colonel Tavington helped Margaret to a log beyond where the men were moving around and helped ease her down to sit on it. "Well?"

"My hand." She said as she hunched forward, out of the cold blast of rain that pelted through the canopy above them. "I cut it somehow…I don't remember how or when." The Colonel's hands were warm as he pulled her hand towards him and peeled her stiff fingers away from the gash. He grimaced at the sight of the cut and the amount of blood pooling in her palm. Rain gathered on her fingertips and beaded red in the old blood, her hand wasn't big enough and the excess rain and blood streamed down her arm and into her sleeve.

"It might need stitches." Tavington turned her hand to the side and watched as blood continued to pulse up through the wound. "Wait here."

"My bags…my saddle bags had needle and thread…" Margaret spoke to the Colonel's back, but he never acknowledged her. Belatedly, she realized her saddlebags were more than likely still on her dead horse in the middle of the road several miles back.

For a moment, Margaret was given the time she needed to look at all the hurts she'd noticed on their escape from the roadway. Her right leg was scratched and bruised, a large welt crossed her other leg, and her knees were turning various shades of black and blue. Her back ached, as did her shoulders and her hip where she'd fallen from her horse. There were holes at the elbows of her dress and her neck and face felt raw and scraped from where she'd been pulled through the sand. But the worst was by far the cut across her palm. She shuddered as a cold wind blew the water that had accumulated on the leaves down onto her and she hunched forward, instinctively trying to get away from the chill weather. A pair of mud splattered boots appeared in her vision and she looked up at the Colonel as he dropped an oil cloth around her shoulders.

"I don't want you to think of me as a complete monster. Miss St. Clair." Margaret blinked. How had he heard of her preference for her maiden name and not her married one? "I am sorry." The words were said in a way that made Margaret think he said them infrequently, and rarely meant them. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm sorry that you were injured today."

"It wasn't your fault." She said quietly. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"That doesn't make me any less sorry." He snapped. He grasped her hand and dragged a rough cloth over it, clearing most of the blood from the wound. Margaret dug the fingers of her free hand into the soft wood of the rotting log every time he slid the rag across her injured palm. When Colonel Tavington looked up he had a clear view of her face. It was pale, but the trails of tears were plain enough in the dirt that clung to her cheeks. "You're lucky. It won't need stitches." Margaret heaved a sigh of relief as she watched the Colonel work. She had been biting her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth as he had cleaned the wound. Margaret could taste blood but dared not shout or scream in front of the Colonel or his dragoons.

"Thank you." She whispered when she thought she could again speak. He packed the wound with lint and wound a bandage around her hand, she only hissed once when he drew it too tight.

"We're staying here tonight. I'll have someone come help you once things settle down." Tavington said as he stood.

"That won't be necessary, Colonel. Thank you."

"Don't be so stubborn." The Colonel snapped. "You could hardly stand a few moments ago. Do you think you're going to gather wood and set up a shelter for yourself with only one hand?"

"I suppose n…"

"You suppose not." Tavington knelt before her again and stared into her eyes, his voice suddenly gentle. "I'll send someone for you in a moment. For now, I must see to the rest of the men."

"Yes sir." Margaret whispered as the Colonel moved off towards where the others had set up camp.

As evening fell, and the camp was set up as well as could be expected, one of the men collected Margaret from her log and helped her to a fire to eat and stay warm beside. She was still light-headed and was grateful for the arm to lean against. The food was meager: bacon, biscuits and coffee, but it was warm.

"I saw you fall." One of the men said as they all stared into the fire, once the plates had been cleared away. "I thought you'd been shot. I couldn't believe those bast….brigands would target a woman."

"Honorless rogues." Another of the men groused. His arm was bandaged, and blood stained his coat front and back. He'd taken a ball through his arm, but it had passed through clean. "Shooting at women, firing from the shadows….that's the coward's way to fight."

"It was my horse that was shot, not me." Margaret said quietly. "I don't think they were paying attention to who I was."

"Why are you defending them?" One of the other men asked as he added wood to the fire. "How can you after today?"

"I'm not defending them. I just don't think that in the heat of battle they could tell me from anyone else."

_A lie! _Margaret's brain shouted. _They did target you and you know it. That rebel came right for you when they charged._

"Your hand?" The man nodded towards her bandaged palm.

"I don't know. I don't remember being injured…the pain didn't come on me until after we'd left that place. I don't remember much of anything."

"That's probably a good thing." One of the older men said quietly. "Women shouldn't have to see the things you saw on that road today."

But Margaret did remember, and she dreamed, over and over, about the men falling from their horses, lifeless eyes and blood. So much blood, though that didn't bother her. Not with all the births she'd been present for. No, it was the shear violence of the afternoon that shocked her and plagued her dreams and kept her awake most of the night.

* * *

The ride back to the fort was long and hard on the party of injured dragoons, though by the time they were in sight of the fort on the hill, they were all riding as tall as they were able, smart in their crimson coats and pelted helmets proudly perched atop their heads. Margaret was assisted from the horse by one of the grooms and limped heavily towards the tent that had been set aside for her use. She boiled water and washed as much of the grime from her arms as she could with only her right hand. She struggled to remove her filthy bodice and wet shift. She slipped her ruined petticoat off and quickly redressed in warm, dry clothes. Sitting beside the fire, she unwrapped the dressing from her hand and looked at the gash in her palm. It itched, but it wasn't infected, and for that Margaret was grateful.

"You ought to put some salve on it." Margaret gasped at the voice, but it was only James Wilkins who stood on the other side of the fire.

"Where am I supposed to find salve at a time like this?" Margaret snapped, wadding up the crusty old bandage and tossing it into the fire. "Not exactly something a scout or spy has easy access to." She was angry that several of her salves had been lost on the road side in her saddlebag. She was also tired, her dreams the night before having been plagued by visions of the fight on the road. Her head pounded and her eyes burned with her fatigue. He cleared his throat and she brought her tired eyes up to meet his which were smiling and sympathetic. He held out his hand and displayed a small tin of salve. Her eyes flew from the item in his hand to his eyes. "Where…? Why?"

"You are a strong young woman Mrs. Thomas. Many of the men admire you for it." He knelt before her, taking the wash rag from her hands and moving her small pot of water to the side. "But you're stubborn and willful and it _will_ get you in to trouble. You must learn to let us assist you….much as you've assisted us." As if to make a point, he wrenched the tin open using both hands, something she would not be able to do until her hand hurt less.

Chastised, she looked to the dirt at her feet before slowly bringing her eyes back to his.

"Trust is hard." Margaret said slowly. "How can I trust you when you were ready to kill me and my family?" It was Wilkins' turn to feel chastised. "I'm terrified, Captain Wilkins. Every day I wake up here, I wake up frightened, and not just because of what happened yesterday, though that's a large part of it." Impulsively she reached out and grasped his hand, forcing him to meet her earnest gaze. She was amazed at just how small her hand was compared to his. "But I _want_ to trust someone Captain. I don't want to be afraid anymore. It's so tiring being afraid all the time." He smiled slowly at her.

"Will you trust me?"

"I want to." He smiled at the response; it was more than she'd ever admitted to him before. "I do want to trust you."

Captain Wilkins grasped her hand in his and gently applied the salve around the edges of her wound. She let him re-bind the wound as well, accepting for the first time that she wouldn't be able to dress it on her own. "I'd dearly like to stay and talk, but I have duties to return to."

"Go. I'll see you around camp I'm sure." The Captain disappeared into the shadows and left Margaret to heal on her own beside her small camp fire. "Thank You!" She called after, but was unsure whether or not he'd heard.

She remained beside her fire, enjoying the warmth it put out and attempted to comb some of the tangles from her hair, unaware that Colonel Tavington watched from the shadows beyond her small section of the camp. Tavington had watched the whole scene play out between his scout and his captain. _Of course it would be James Wilkins that would go riding in like a white knight._ He ground his teeth as he turned and put as much distance as he could between him and his American scout.

For his own good as well as for hers.


	6. Changes

Thank you to everyone who is taking the time to review or even just read this. I really appreciate the positive comments and the support.

* * *

Winter descended upon Fort Carolina and both armies set up winter camps. Margaret was given one of the traders' cottages below the fort while the rest of the dragoons built shanty's and small cabins to stay in, tents being impractical in the winter winds and frosts. Margaret spent weeks out in the woods gathering late season herbs and plants and hung them from the rafters of her little cabin. She harvested squash and pumpkins from the small garden she'd planted part way through the summer and had even managed to harvest a decent amount of beans as well. Her knowledge of local flora and her ability to make salves and soaps allowed her to run a fairly decent trade through the coldest of months. Several of the dragoons came to her with requests for mittens, scarves and extra socks to help get them through the long night watches and cold foraging missions.

Captain Wilkins visited frequently through the winter months, making sure Margaret had what she needed to survive. He often brought other officers with him and Margaret's cabin was a frequent gathering place for small social gatherings. At Christmas, one of the men shot a turkey, and it was brought to Margaret so that she might season and cook it properly.

But she was not required to go out very often with the dragoons, and only when there was something exceptionally specific they were looking for. At times, she missed the missions. She'd felt useful when she'd been riding with the dragoons, and though she still felt useful providing them with things they needed, she as often as not felt bored. Margaret had never loved the tediousness and cold of winter before, but the lack of activity that winter afforded an army camp was nerve wracking.

A surgeon visited in February, and James Wilkins brought the man to visit with Margaret to discuss what she had given several of the men to alleviate their chilblains. Margaret and the Doctor talked for hours, and he took furious notes that he might better treat men in other camps. He purchased several soaps and salves to take with him. The money allowed Margaret to purchase things she'd been living without and enabled her to replace or repair much of her battered wardrobe.

One day, while walking up to the fort, Margaret saw a tiny field flower poking up through the old yellowed grasses. Almost before her eyes, the countryside seemed to bloom, and every day, the snow and ice receded into the deeper shadows of the woods and the buds and blooms began to push up from the cold earth, which slowly changed from dormant winter brown to green to a patchwork of yellow, purple and white.

Spring had arrived.

* * *

"We are to move to Middleton Place." Margaret glanced up from her sewing to stare at the figure in her doorway. She hadn't spoken to Colonel Tavington since the fight on the roadway the autumn before. He'd made himself decidedly absent in her life—busy as he was with winter patrols and trying to keep the dragoons well supplied through the winter. She'd actually thought he might have been avoiding or ignoring her intentionally. And yet, here he was, informing her of a move.

_Strange…._

"We?" She set her sewing aside and stood to face the Colonel. "'We' as in the Royal Dragoons, or 'we' as in "The Royal Dragoons and their spy?"" Margaret very nearly smiled as she saw a muscle twitch in Tavington's jaw. The man couldn't spare any time at all to speak to her through the winter and yet here he was ordering her about again.

"You weren't a spy….an informant, rather."

"It's the same thing."

"And I thought winter would cool that temper and dull that tongue. I see I was wrong." When Margaret made no response Colonel Tavington sighed and stepped farther into her house. She'd left the door open to enjoy the spring breeze. Now she wished she hadn't, for it had brought the Colonel to her doorstep. "You're to come as well. You seem to be handy with the herbal remedies and such." He moved a bundle of lavender across her work table and eyed the thyme and rosemary soaking in a large bowl. She suddenly found herself blanketed in the undivided attention of the glacial-eyed colonel. "You made quite the impression on the surgeon that visited over the winter. He expressly requested you be brought along."

Margaret crossed her arms over her chest. A great part of her had hoped that she would be released. She'd exhausted her knowledge of the swamp and the Colonel's men knew the area well enough to navigate and expedite their missions. But a small part of her hoped to linger with the dragoons. She enjoyed their company and enjoyed feeling useful. That small part of her hoped that, for whatever reason, Colonel Tavington _wanted _her to come along.

"I see. When do we depart?"

"Week's end. You'll be ready?" Margaret gave one swift nod of her head.

"Good. That's settled then." Just as suddenly as he had appeared, the Colonel was gone, leaving Margaret to look around what had been her winter haven and decide what she could and couldn't bring in the move to Middleton Place.

By weeks' end, Margaret was prepared for the journey. She packed her extra gowns and petticoats and rolled her coat and blanket to stow behind her saddle. She'd procured an old set of saddle bags to replace the ones she'd lost last fall and packed as many of her herbs as she could, as well as a few bars of soap she knew the surgeons would appreciate having. She glanced one last time around the little cabin that had been her winter home and stepped out into the spring light, silently preparing herself for whatever adventures might be coming her way.

"Why are we going to Middleton?" The dragoons had dismounted and Margaret had found herself walking her horse beside James Wilkins. "I thought you were supposed to flush out the swamps…"

James stepped closer to her and looked around to be sure they weren't over heard.

"Remember the raids last autumn?"

"How could I forget them?" Margaret still had nightmares. The violence and brutality of the ambush on the roadway had haunted her through the darkest, coldest days of the winter and she'd often awoken drenched in sweat, her breath caught on a scream brought on by her dreams.

Of course, she'd told no one of the dreams. Margaret forced herself to pay attention to Captain Wilkins and not let her mind wander towards the violent memories of the autumn before.

"One of them was carried out against a supply train." Margaret shrugged, plenty of supply trains had been raided by both sides. It was common practice. "This particular supply train happened to contain the personal belongings of Lord General Cornwallis." Margaret gasped and covered her mouth to stifle the noise. James smiled and she smacked his arm gently, angry at herself that she'd given him the reaction he'd been hoping for.

"You are _such _a gossiper!" Margaret hissed, looking around to see if others were paying attention, just as James had done a moment before. "So we're being relocated because…."

"Because the Lord General is furious and wants Colonel Tavington closer at hand." James looked around again. "Lord General Cornwallis is not happy with the way Colonel Tavington has been….conducting himself in battle."

Margaret's brow furrowed as she took this in. She knew Tavington's tactics were decidedly brutal, she'd seen him shoot men in cold blood, she'd been involved in spying for him, but she had thought it was based on orders he had received. Now she realized the man was blood thirsty and sinister of his own accord. It made her shiver in spite of the heat of the day.

Margaret watched the country side as they crept closer and closer towards Charlestown and Middleton Place. It was still too early in the season to be collecting plants, but she kept track of where the jewelweed bushes were and where she might be able to find milkweed as well as plenty of Spanish moss. If the intent was to pawn her off on a surgeon, then she'd best know where to find supplies.

It was dark before they saw the lights of the big Middleton house. Colonel Tavington continued up the roadway with his senior officers and left everyone else behind to set up camp. Margaret had secured a tent of her own, and though it wasn't as large as the ones the dragoons used, and was little more than a lean to. But it was all the space she needed and it would keep the rain off of her, and that was what truly mattered in the Carolina Summers.

* * *

Life at Middleton was much the same as life had been at Fort Carolina. Margaret did far less scouting (and no spying), but she laundered and mended and twice a week went to the hospital to help the surgeons care for the men who had not survived the winter as well as the dragoons had under Margaret's care. She liked life at Middleton Place; it was serene and afforded luxuries that she'd done without for a very long time. Tradesmen and milliners of a higher quality frequented Middleton, in order to keep the Middleton ladies up on all the finest of European fashion.

That was why it came as no surprise when there was an announcement about a ball. She had been invited to dine with several of the men and after the meal they had begun to speak about the ball.

"But why? Surely a ball is frivolous." She said, not even looking up from the shirt she was mending. "Are there really so many people able to attend?"

"The officers of His Majesties army." One of the men said. "The Ladies from Charlestown."

"It's near twenty miles!" Now Margaret did look up. She knew many of the women would be traveling from Charlestown to visit the grand home on the Ashley. Middleton Balls were quite the rage. Many of the men were grinning and others were discussing taking trips to the city to invite young women to the ball and have their dress coats mended and cleaned up. She grinned into her needlework and listened to the chatter. It reminded her of all the times she and Abigail had stayed up talking about the fancy balls and how many they would attend when they were older. Those dreams hadn't come true for either of them, but especially not Margaret. Not only was her husband never invited to the truly fancy balls, but he was certainly never one to receive an invitation from the Middleton's. John Miller was so far out in the swamps that the only dancing was what she could teach the children in the farm yard between chores. And now it seemed, as a laundress and cast off spy of the British dragoons, she'd be kept from yet another grand ball. She sighed.

_C'est la vie._

* * *

Margaret packed the seeping wound with moss and then wound the bandage around the man's arm. She was happy with the way he was healing, as were the surgeons. They were ecstatic to learn the local herbs to help cure the fevers that seemed to run rampant through the army. Some were incurable, but others were easily treated with teas and balms and salves.

"Will we see you tomorrow, Miss Margaret?" Margaret smiled as she rolled another bandage and packed it into a crate.

"You know you won't, Doctor Frasier." Margaret closed the crate and looked over at the older gentleman who was the head doctor in the ward. "I'll be back in two days' time. Hopefully with some of that soap we discussed."

"But surely you'll be at the ball…." Margaret laughed in spite of the stricken look on the man's face. "But the Lord General has sent out the invitations….and all the eligible young ladies have been invited."

"Like something out of one of those Perrault stories." Groused Doctor Anders, his Austrian accent particularly heavy. "All the eligible young ladies indeed…."

"True. And I'm neither young, nor eligible Doctors. I'm a widow working night and day for His Majesty's Army. Hardly the sort to grace a fine evening at the big house."

"But surely we could…"

"Nonsense! I'm far too busy for such frivolous things as a ball." For some reason her heart twisted when she said it. The lie was said easily enough, but her heart knew it for what it was. "I'll be busy making salves and soaps I imagine. A far more worthy project than preparing for a ball!"

"A smart lass." Doctor Anders nodded. "Not one of those empty headed flibberty-jibbets that have been mooning about and getting underfoot." Margaret hid a smile as the grouchy old doctor muttered something under his breath in German. Margaret dipped a curtsey to the doctors and strolled down the road towards the dragoon camp. The sun beat down comfortably and warmed her shoulders and she quickly stripped her mob cap off and took the pins from her braid to let it fall down her back. She smiled to think of the two doctors, so different in their mannerisms and the way they acted towards the world in general. The dour Doctor Anders was very straight forward. It had been hard to get him to see what good herbs and local medicines could be for the men. Doctor Frasier was ever the optimist, and was far more willing to try new things and new ways of healing. It was like seeing two sides of the same coin. She rather liked them.

"Miss St. Clair?" Margaret turned and saw Captain Wilkins coming up behind her. "Returning from the hospital?"

"Yes. Quite a long day…." She held up her hand to shield her eyes from the sinking afternoon sun. "I should spend more time there. There aren't enough hands for the injured and sick." Wilkins took up a place beside her and the two of them strolled towards the dragoon camp.

"Have you heard much about the ball?" Margaret looked up and grinned in response to the one James was wearing on his face.

"Ball? Is there to be one?" It felt good to joke. It had been so long since she'd been able to truly banter with someone.

"Yes. I'm expected to attend you know." James tugged at his lapels, pretending to straighten his coat and take on an aristocratic air. "I suppose it will be dreadfully boring…" They had arrived at her camp and Margaret knelt to re-kindle her meager fire while James gathered more wood, all talk of the ball momentarily forgotten in the face of camp necessities. Margaret put water on to boil and pulled out the worn mugs she had managed to salvage for use in camp. Once the water was hot, she made tea and handed one of the mugs to James while she cradled the other in her hands.

"You won't be bored. It'll be a relief. A bit of civilization in the midst of all this war." She said, sipping at the weak tea she'd managed to make.

"It will be ghastly boring. Have you never been?" Margaret stared into the dancing flames and shook her head. She suddenly found herself talking briefly of her time with the Ravenelle Family and how she and Abigail used to discuss the fancy balls and their dreams of attending.

"I'm sure, what with all the Charlestown ladies coming up you'll manage to find some pretty girl to dance the night away with. You won't even notice how time will fly."

"I think I already have." Margaret's heart did a strange sort of flop in disappointment, which was unexpected. Hadn't she just been saying that he ought to find someone and forget camp life? Forget her and the drudgery of the army and the hell of battle. _You're far too old for dreams of ball rooms now Margaret St. Claire!_ She scolded herself, bringing her mind back from wandering she looked up at James who was staring at her. "Where were you just now?"

"Right here…." Margaret shook her head, not comprehending the Captain's question.

"No. Your mind was someplace else. What were you thinking on?"

"Oh, nothing." Margaret laughed and waved her hand through the air, dismissing James' comment. "The wandering musings of a woman too old for silly girlhood thoughts"

"Fancy dresses and handsome men twirling about a dance floor, eating nothing but cake and drinking wine?"

"What…? Don't mock me!

"I wouldn't dream of it." James sipped his tea, but his eyes betrayed his mirth.

"What would make you say such a thing anyway?" Margaret finally stammered, flustered that his words had so closely echoed her imaginings and the imaginings of any young girl who had ever seen an illustrated magazine.

"I had a sister." James set the mug down beside the log he was sitting on and leaned away from the heat of the fire. "It's how she used to describe her imaginings of how she wanted her coming out."

"And did she get that? Her handsome men and fancy cakes?" Margaret studied Captain Wilkins a moment. She'd thought he wasn't too much older than her, but he made it sound as if the events he was discussing had happened in another life time.

"No. She died before that could happen." He heaved a sigh and glanced over his shoulder as the sun sank beyond the trees, throwing them into shadow. "A fever came and took her and my parents both. She'd have been nearing her twenty third birthday."

"I'm sorry…" Gone was the mirth from a moment before. Margaret was sorry to drag him into such harsh memories.

"Don't be." James said coughing, the slight smile returning to his face. "So would you like to?"

"Like to what?" Margaret had taken up her mending in the fading light and was distractedly threading her needle. James laughed out right and threw his hands in the air.

"Of what have we been speaking Margaret?" She looked up at the use of her given name. She wasn't sure he'd ever said it before. "I'm trying to ask if you'd let me escort you to the ball."

"Me? But I thought you said….before….you said you'd found someone to make the time fly!" Margaret pointed her needle towards him. "She won't be too happy to see a camp laundress on your arm." She stood suddenly and went to gather more wood for her fire.

"I was talking about you." James had gotten up and come to stand behind her. He rested a hand on her arm to keep her from moving about so quickly. "Will you stop just a moment and look at me?"

"Why? So you can mock me some more?" She turned and glared up at him, intentionally bowling past him with her arms full of wood. "Fine joke asking the spy to the ball….the laundress. What business would I have showing my face up there?" She waved towards the distant house. "You think I'd go just so I can be laughed at from behind fans and pitied?"

"No one would laugh at you." She stood with her arms akimbo and glared at him across her fire. "I'm serious about wanting to go with you."

"I wouldn't know what to wear….what with my choice of so many gowns to wear." Margaret continued to glare at James. _What was he thinking?_ Certainly a moment before she'd indeed wanted to be invited. What girl wouldn't? But it was not her place. She had neither the wardrobe nor the standing to be attending a military ball at one of the finest houses in South Carolina.

"That's no matter…"

"No matter?!" Margaret took up her sewing again and stabbed a needle into the trousers she was repairing. She snorted a rather unladylike sort of laugh. "Perhaps it's no matter to you, but this is a fancy dress ball James. Not the place for my camp dresses, all smeared with mud and soot and the good Lord knows what else…" She hissed and pulled her finger away from her work, sucking on the wound she'd inflicted on herself with her stabbing stitching motions. James knelt beside her and took her injured hand from her mouth, bringing her attention to him.

"You once said you didn't trust me. Do you now, Margaret?"

"A little…."

"Then just say yes." His voice was soft, the back of his thumb stroked over the skin on the back of her hand, and she slowly felt her anger and the misplaced hurt ebbing away.

"And if I do?"

"Do what?" James said with a cocky grin.

"Of what have we been speaking, James Wilkins?"

"I'm still waiting on a 'yes.'"

"You're insufferable, did you know that?" James' smile was gone and he stared into her eyes, waiting on her answer. "Fine. Yes." It was all she could do to keep from grinning back as he stood and bowed to her.

"You do me a great honor. I'll come and collect you tomorrow around noon."

"James, what am I going to do about a dress? Captain Wilkins!" But he did not turn and Margaret was left to stab at innocent articles of clothing in her slight anger and greater excitement.


	7. Magic and Moonlight

Margaret had gotten up and scrubbed herself as pink and clean as she could in the small pot of cold water. She lay out her best petticoats and scrubbed up the better of her two short gowns. She spent some time mending the worn collar and scrubbing as much mud from her boots as was possible. By the time Captain Wilkins came to collect her, she felt as if she could get no more presentable.

"Are you ready to go?" Margaret glared at the man standing before her. She noticed the high shine on his boots, and the way the sun shone off the buttons on his coat. He looked well put together already, even if he wasn't in his fancy dress coat.

"I changed my mind." She turned on her heel and ducked into the trees behind her small shelter. She could never hope to be as well put together. How would she pass with the best and finest of the cream of Charlestown society? She heard James crash into the underbrush behind her as he chased her through the trees. Margaret only stopped when he gripped her arm tightly and turned her to face him.

"No!" She shouted and pushed ineffectively at his chest. "Let me go!"

"Why? What would make you spend so much time getting yourself ready to go to the big house this morning only to change your mind now?"

"How do you know how much time I spent?" She stopped fighting against him and stared suspiciously at him. "Spying on the spy?"

"You're wearing your best clothing and your boots were clean." James glanced down to wear they both stood in soft mud. "_Were._"

"James, this isn't right." Margaret hated the whine that had crept into her voice. "I can't possibly pass for society. I've been too long out of it. I'll embarrass you, and myself, and the Colonel and…."

"And you won't do any of these things." James said in a calming voice, placing his fingertips over her mouth to quiet the rambling woman in front of him. "You'll be splendid. Besides, I called in a favor, and you wouldn't want to put my cousin out, would you? Not after she went to all the trouble to help out." Margaret narrowed her eyes at the man before her and reluctantly relaxed.

"I'm still not sure this the best idea. The colonel is sure to have your head." She said when James removed his fingers from her mouth.

"Not at all. Come, or we'll be late." Margaret and James walked up to Middleton place. High born ladies strolled the gardens out back or sipped tea at small tables on the wide front porch. Margaret and James skirted them and made it to the rear door of the house, where a woman was stooped over the new buds on a pink rose bush.

"James!" She said when she saw them. "Is that really you?!"

"Millicent!" James allowed the woman to embrace him. "It's good to see you."

"I wish I could say the same. You look so haggard. Positively skeletal." Millicent was older than either Margaret or James and she fussed over the facings of James coat, patting his chest and feeling whether he was truly skinny, which Margaret certainly didn't think was the case. "Don't they feed you in the army?"

"Of course they do. But enough about me. Cousin Millicent, I'd like you to meet Margaret St. Claire Thomas. Margaret, this is my cousin, Millicent Edmunds."

"Pleased to meet you." Margaret said dipping a curtsey.

"Ah….I see." Millicent looked Margaret over, making her feel like she was being appraised for auction. Millicent smiled though and held her hand out towards Margaret. "Come my dear. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of having a bath drawn for you. If we tarry here, it will grow cold."

Margaret could have run up the stairs at the promise of a bath. She took Millicent's hand and looked back at James a moment.

"I will see you ladies this evening." He bowed and turned, leaving Margaret to be tugged into the Middleton mansion and to the waiting bath.

Margaret sank into the warm water and let it soak into muscles that had been too long without. She dunked her head under and let Millicent's ladies' maid scrub it with a scented soap. Even with her sponge bath that morning there was still grime left to the water when she was finished. The drying sheets had been warmed beside the fire and Margaret wrapped herself in one as the maid dried her hair.

"Thank you Mrs. Edmunds. That bath meant the world to me."

"A luxury not often afforded in a camp full of men?"

"A luxury never afforded in a camp full of men." Margaret stared as a tea service was brought in, complete with sugar cakes and cream. "Gracious!"

"I thought we could take tea together here and get to know one another." Millicent said, pouring out the tea and handing a cup to Margaret. "It's real tea. James assures me this is another luxury that is often gone without while gallivanting through our fair colony's swamps and back woods."

"Truly, it is a rather ascetic life." Margaret smelled the tea, before taking a sip of it, enjoying the full experience. "I thought the bath was heaven. I'd forgotten what real tea tastes like. Thank you again."

"Say nothing of it." Millicent leaned across the table and touched Margaret's knee beneath the drying sheet. "It is my pleasure to help James with this. He's rather taken with you, you know."

"With me? No…."

"Well, that was the impression I got from his letters, Miss Thomas."

"Miss St. Claire. Thomas was my married name." Millicent set her tea cup down as she digested this new information.

"Was? You're a widow then?"

"Yes."

"No longer in mourning…"

"It's been nearly four years. Our marriage didn't even last that long." Millicent stared at Margaret.

"You must have been a child bride then….you couldn't have been more than—"

"Fifteen. I was almost eighteen when he died." Margaret set her tea cup down and stared back at Millicent. Had it really been so long since she'd been married? "His family was not very kind to me and I had not been written into his will. I chose last year to drop my husband's name and take up mine again. He gave me nothing…I felt I had little right to keep his name."

"Well then, good riddance to him." Millicent smiled. "I too am widowed, though my husband left me far more than yours seems to have." A housemaid came to take the tea service away and Millicent's maid started to work on preparing Margaret for the ball.

A corset was produced, seemingly from nowhere. The stiff boning pulled and pinched and soon Margaret's waist was whittled down to practically nothing while her bosom was pushed up to what Margaret almost considered immodest proportions. Next came the hoops which would hold the skirt out and into the proper shape. Margaret hadn't worn hoops in ages. Even her wedding gown hadn't needed hoops. She knew it would take some getting used to.

"I hope you don't mind, but I selected one of my old gowns for you, based on what James told me." Margaret looked in the mirror where Millicent was holding up a gown for her approval. Most of the gown was a shimmery copper color with lace spilling from the short sleeves. The front panel of the skirt matched the stomacher, which was of blue and copper brocade. Margaret turned and stared at the dress, her eyes wide. "Is it alright?"

"It's more than alright…it's wonderful!" Margaret ran her hand gently across the material, feeling how soft it was. "I don't know what to say…."

"Say nothing." Millicent lay the dress flat as Margaret's hair was brushed out and the maid started the process of braiding and pinning it into an appropriate fashion. "It's cut in the French way and has a small train. Nothing too big since this _is_ a garden party. Will you be able to manage?"

"I believe I remember how to handle a train…." Margaret smiled in the mirror. "It's a bit late if I can't, isn't it?"

"You may just be right." Millicent laughed. "Oh dear! What have I done? Here I am feeling so much like that Cinder girl's Fairy Godmother, and I've doomed you if you can't handle a train!"

Margaret laughed too. It was the second time in as many days that popular Perrault tale had been brought up in conversation. She'd even begun to think of herself as the Cinder girl character.

"Tsk, listen to me go on and on! Fairy Godmother indeed! Trains go in and out of fashion every few years….we don't forget how to walk with them in the intermittent times." The maid helped Margaret into the beautiful gown, pinning and tying the stomacher into place before arranging the folds at the back of the dress to drape gracefully from Margaret's shoulders down to the hemline. Margaret took a turn about the room without a problem and turned for inspection.

"Shoes." The Maid held up a pair of sapphire blue heeled slippers and bent to help Margaret into them.

They were an unmitigated disaster.

"They're too big!" the maid wailed. "Oh dear, what shall we do?"

"Perhaps we can stuff something into the toes?" Margaret suggested. She could barely take a step without stepping right out of the shoes that matched her dress so well. "Or perhaps I'll just have to wear my camp boots…" Millicent thought a moment and went to other women in the house who might have extra shoes, but they either wouldn't match, or wouldn't fit.

"I'd rather have you be barefoot than wear them ugly boots." The maid groused, glaring at the boots as if she could set them afire.

"They'll have to do. No amount of padding in my slippers is going to save Miss St. Claire's feet." Millicent winked. "Heavens, this couldn't be the perfect Cindergirl story, could it? I'm not, for all Jamie thinks so, a fairy god mother." Margaret sat and laced up her camp boots. If she was very careful, no one would see her ugly boots. Millicent was taller than Margaret, so the gown was long anyway. The two women left the room and went down the grand staircase behind numerous other women who had imposed upon the Middleton's for a room in which to prepare. Margaret could hear laughter from the dining room and drawing room and outside the sound of carriage wheels never seemed to cease.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs Millicent handed Margaret a fan and a pair of mitts. "I forgot to give you these upstairs. Forgive me for saying so, but your hands are rather rough from your life with the dragoons."

"Thank you so much Millicent…"

"Say nothing of it." Millicent said holding up her own fan to silence Margaret. "Now, let us go make conversation until our escorts come find us."

* * *

Margaret was quietly listening to the banter around her when the dragoons came in. She had to hide her smile behind her fan as the red swarm of men came in and looked around the crowded drawing room. She thought it was rather similar to what they looked like when making a charge.

James looked around the room, his eyes adjusting to the multitude of pale colors. He'd been so long amongst the dragoons that anything that wasn't crimson seemed alien. The room was crammed with women in a confection of pale colors; ivories, mint greens, ice blues, pinks and lavendars. Millicent wandered up to him wearing a butter yellow dress. She grasped his arm and smiled.

"You look lost Jamie dear." She said. "It's as if you've wandered into a strange new land."

"I believe I have." James smiled down at her. "This is a far cry from an army camp."

"Hmmm." Millicent narrowed her eyes at him. "I should think so. Far more genteel and less barbaric. I do hope you remember your manners and how to behave in polite society."

"Of course, dearest cousin." Millicent smiled wider to see James' eyes cast over the room, searching for Margaret.

"I ought to make you suffer and not tell you what she's wearing." Millicent teased. "As punishment for ignoring me." James glanced quickly at her, but went back to perusing the room when he realized she was joking.

"You wouldn't be so cruel. You'll blurt it out any minute just to show off your handiwork." He smiled down at his cousin as she mock fumed.

"Now I shan't tell you at all." She slid her fan shut against her hand with more force than she intended. "Now see what you made me do…"

James grasped her palm and kissed away her hurt, all the while his eyes smiled at the woman before him. "Madame, I do hope you can forgive me for causing you such grievous injury…"

"You are a horrible cad. Always have been, always will be." Millicent caressed his cheek, all teasing gone. "I hope you never change. " Millicent rose on tip toe and kissed James' cheek. "She's wearing copper." She whispered in his ear. James watched as Millicent moved through the crowd, as graceful as a swan while also scanning the room for copper.

* * *

Margaret had been engaged by a woman and her daughter in conversation. The mother had recognized Margaret from her time in Charlestown and had moved in the some of the same circles as the Ravenelles. The polite inquiries into the past few years and Margaret's presence were growing stagnant as Margaret was vague about her time away from the city and her participation with the dragoons. She saw their eyes widen and felt a presence come up behind her.

"Miss St. Clair?" Margaret turned and smiled to see Captain Wilkins standing behind her. His shoulders looked impossibly wide in his dress coat and he almost seemed to shine in the candle light of the drawing room.

"Captain Wilkins. How good it is to see you this evening." She extended her hand, which he took and kissed gently.

"Ladies, if I might steal Miss St. Clair away from you…?" The two women nodded and Margaret and James moved out of the house and down into the gardens where many people were mingling in the spring air. They strolled down one of the manicured walks and James took flutes of champagne from a passing footman, handing one to Margaret. Margaret sipped at the bubbly wine and breathed deeply of the fresh air.

"Thank you for rescuing me." She said. "That conversation was about to get _very_ awkward."

"Oh?"

"Mmm, yes. Someone from my past." Margaret and James stopped to look over the terraced gardens down to the river where two ships were anchored.

"You look lovely tonight." James suddenly said. "Not that you don't look lovely always…just that tonight you…"

"Thank You." Margaret touched his sleeve and leaned towards him. "I must look half mad at camp….hardly taking care of myself; certainly never to these standards." She brushed a nervous hand down the brocade in her stomacher. "I'd be lying if I said I never dreamed of this though."

They continued down the path way a little farther when the sound of music drifted to them from elsewhere on the property.

"Captain Wilkins?" James slowed his pace as they rounded a bend in the path and they stopped beneath an arbor where evening primroses were just beginning to open their pink and yellow trumpets to the night. Margaret watched a firefly drift across the path and sighed. "Would it be horrible of me if I wanted to forget everything, just for tonight?" In the fading light Margaret could see a wisteria flower, the only one on the vine, still open and enjoying the last of the sunlight. She brushed her fingers over the purple petals. "Forget camp, and the wounded and the _war_? Forget the years between my girlhood and widowhood?" She looked up at him. "Would that be horribly selfish of me to want that, just for tonight?"

"I don't think it would be horrible of you at all."

"You think there's enough magic in the moonlight to make this fairy story happen for me? Old as I am?"

"I think there just might be." James leaned slightly forward, reducing the space between them. Margaret could smell his soap and feel his breath on her cheek. She was about to close the last few inches when loud footsteps alerted them to someone approaching. The bubble burst and they stepped away from one another. Margaret couldn't help giggling.

"So much for that…."

"Would you care to dance?" James asked suddenly. "I'm not the greatest dancer in the world, but I get the notion that no one will pay much attention to that."

"Why not?" Margaret and James turned back towards the house.

"They'll all be watching you. The fairy tale princess come to life."

And for that evening, Margaret felt like she was indeed a fairy tale princess. She and James danced together several times, and she was also pressed to dance with several others. She was euphoric, smiling more and laughing as if she were making up for all the smiling she hadn't done while in the camps. For just one night she was going to forget her life of drudgery and enjoy a fancy party at Middleton Place.


	8. Flames

Margaret and James stepped outside to rest from the dancing and make room for other couples. James introduced Margaret to several men he knew from the legislature and his life before the army. Margaret let her attention wander, not wanting to miss any of the sights or sounds of the party. She saw two officers stride down the stairs purposefully. The elaborate gold braiding on the shoulders of their coats set them apart as high command.

"Lord General Cornwallis does not look pleased." The man James had been talking to said suddenly. "I wonder what could have upset the general so much…"

The man moved away and Margaret and James watched the exchange closely.

"The taller man is the Lord General." James whispered to Margaret. "The man beside him is General O'Hara, one of his aides."

Margaret saw Colonel Tavington come out of the house behind the Lord General. Margaret could discern little difference in him. Except for his usual trappings of sword and pistol and his lack of helmet, Colonel Tavington didn't look at all like he had risen to the occasion.

"I would imagine the Lord General's ire has everything to do with the Colonel's order to offload arms and munitions first."

"What else would be of interest aboard ship?" Margaret asked. James sighed and then looked around, trying to see if anyone was standing too close. He held his arm to Margaret and guided her away from most of the guests.

"Do you remember what I told you about the raids last autumn?" James asked. "About a _particular _raid in which the Lord General had a vested interest?"

"Yes…." Margaret answered cautiously.

"It's taken this long to bring over a replacement wardrobe for the Lord General."

"Oh my…that would explain the…" Margaret illustrated the mess of gold braiding that had been looped around the Colonel's shoulder.

"Well, I think he was hoping for fair winds to being the ship in sooner….unfortunately the winds were against him."

"Poor man." Margaret looked back towards where Cornwallis and O'Hara were moving farther down the garden. "He should have come to the camps and had one of the women make him one…we'd have done much better than his valet obviously did." James pulled her to a stop abruptly.

"Come, this is not forgetting life outside this moment. Let us return to the festivities." James said straightening. Margaret and James rejoined the party and milled about some more before Millicent found them.

"James! Margaret!" Millicent flitted down towards them, looking far younger than she was. "Margaret, I was so hoping you'd let me steal my cousin from you for a moment. I would so like to dance…."

"By all means!" Margaret said with a smile. "It's the least I could do for all you've done for me."

Millicent wrapped her arm through James' and pulled him up towards the house. "Come Jamie, they're about to start a reel. I do so love the reels…."

"Miss St. Clair, isn't it?" Margaret turned to see Colonel Tavington standing behind her.

"Colonel Tavington." The Colonel bowed, extending his hand to take hers, which she gave to him before dipping a small curtsey. "You look well this evening."

"As do you. I hardly recognized you. Champagne?" The Colonel snatched two glasses from a footman and handed her one. "And how do you find the evening?"

Margaret was taken aback by the man's soft voice and level of politeness. His clipped tones and harsh voice were being held in check this evening. Standing right in front of him, Margaret realized the Colonel was not in fact wearing a special coat, nor one that was ornamented for the evening. He was wearing his every day uniform, without even the benefit of gold trim down the facings of the coat.

"I'm finding the evening quite well, actually."

"Far better than scrubbing and stitching I should wager."

"Or spying." Margaret took relish in seeing the Colonel splutter into his wine.

"Touche, madame scout." The Colonel brushed at imaginary lint on his coat. "It's been some time since I've felt the sharp side of that tongue of yours."

"But not so long that you don't remember the sting. It would seem the Lord General is less than pleased with you." Margaret saw Tavington's fist tighten at his side and a muscle along his jaw twitched, but she would not stop. "From the glares he's been casting your way, I'd say he gave you the sharp side of his tongue. Or he will by evenings' end."

Heaving a sigh the Colonel shook his head and then glanced over her shoulder. "I was going to ask you to honor me with a dance that I might impartto you information about your family, but since you're less than disposed towards me this evening…." The Colonel raised his glass in a mock salute and made to wander off into the crowd in search of easier and gentler banter, but Margaret reached out quickly and grasped his sleeve before he got too far away.

"What information?" Margaret's heart pounded beneath her stays, blood rushed in her ears, and she was certain all of South Carolina could hear it. "What do you know?"

The Colonel glanced at where she clutched at his coat, then brought his icy gaze to her own face. Margaret swallowed hard but tried to remain calm in the face of the new game he was playing.

"That information is conditional…."

"You said a dance."

"So I did." The Colonel turned and held his arm out towards her, acting the part of a gentleman. Margaret took a deep breath and tried to act normal, but her heart pounded uncontrollably. _What did Colonel Tavington know about her family?_ The large room that had been set aside for dancing was packed with people watching the dancers. Margaret and Colonel Tavington took up a position at the edge of the floor and waited for the dance to end. Margaret saw James glance her way, his brow furrowing at her choice of partner.

"So, what is it you know?"

"Can't stand the anticipation, scout?" Margaret glanced out of the corner of her eye at the man standing next to her. To anyone else in the room, he might have been paying attention to the dancers in front of him, but Margaret knew he was watching her out of the corner of his eye as much as she was watching him.

"Either it's recent, or you've been holding on to it for some time….a bargaining chip of some sort?"

"Hmmm….could be either." Margaret tried not to clench her jaw as she watched the dancers move through the set.

_Insufferable man!_

When the music ended, the dancers traded out and Margaret found herself facing Colonel Tavington. As the music started, Tavington bowed and then took her hand to move her through the motions of the dance.

"They are safe." He finally said, turning her about and passing her off to the other man in the set. Soon she found herself back with Tavington, his hand went to her waist, as was dictated by the dance and Margaret felt his warm fingertips through her gown, a gentle pressure moving her here and there across the floor. He was actually a quite fine dancer.

"My men shot the pigs." Margaret looked up at him a moment and he glanced down at her, one eyebrow arching. "It was the livestock they were killing. Not your family." Margaret was handed off again and when she got back, Tavington took up where he left off. "For all I know, they're still on that plantation. We have yet to go anywhere near it again and they've no reason to contact us. Your stepfather doesn't seem to care much about you."

"He has four children to feed and care for, I'm not his, nor am I helpless."

"I know." Tavington turned her again, a smile touching his lips. "You've proven that countless times. You're a remarkable woman, Scout." The music ended and the dancers came to a stop, Margaret's eyes grew wide and she nearly forgot to curtsey, the compliment had thrown her so off guard. She sank into an uneven curtsey, never taking her eyes from Colonel Tavington. Margaret sensed rather than saw the other dancers moving away, some of them staring at where she and Tavington had yet to move from the floor.

"Miss St. Clair?" James Wilkins' voice broke into her thoughts and she distractedly took his arm.

"Thank You Colonel Tavington." Margaret blurted, suddenly finding her voice. "You've done much to put my mind at ease."

"My pleasure…" His eyes drifted down to the hem of her gown and as he walked by her he paused. "Interesting choice of footwear my dear."

And then he disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Millicent, James and Margaret moved down the pathway, islands of torchlight illuminating the guests who had gathered in small clusters in the grass beside the path. The torches also helped keep the early season mosquitos at bay. James escorted the two ladies towards one such group where he knew most of the people there. Margaret smiled and spoke with the women of the group while the men discussed levies and taxes and other such matters. Suddenly a low rumble filled the air. Margaret's eyes were drawn to the water front. She watched, helpless and horror stricken as the ship bobbing at anchor splintered, the stern blowing completely off and the port rail shattering into millions of tiny pieces. Even half way up the garden, Margaret felt the concussion of the blast and could feel the heat of the flames on her face. She heard women scream while others gasped or swooned. She even thought she heard laughter. Margaret impulsively reached down and grasped James' hand.

"Captain Wilkins?" One of the women in their group asked, "Is this a demonstration of the army's military might?"

"I'm afraid it isn't." Margaret looked around and found Tavington in the crowd knocking back more Champagne before smashing the glass on the paving stones. Lord General Cornwallis' face was almost as red as his coat. The man looked about ready to explode as well. Margaret felt James squeeze her hand and she abruptly looked up at him. "Excuse me…."

Margaret followed behind, lifting the fine skirts to keep up with James' impossibly long stride. "James, wait…" James slowed his pace slightly, allowing her to catch up. "Do you think it was Colonials?"

"I'm certain it was." He stopped suddenly and grasped her arms tightly. "Stay here. You'll be safe here. I'll return as soon as I can." He was quickly lost in a crowd of red coats moving towards the stables. Another wave of scarlet was making its way towards the water front. Many officers simply converged on the Lord General.

It was over an hour and well past dark when the men returned. James found Margaret in the drawing room and pulled her outside where they could speak privately.

"We found nothing. It was too dark by the time we got to the river and any tracks were obscured by infantry that responded." James looked into the darkness where parts of the ship still burned above the waterline. "Of course, with that evidence, or the lack thereof, in mind, the Colonel thinks it's the ghost."

"So much for forgetting the war…." Margaret sighed. "I see now there wasn't enough magic. My wishes were too big. Ce qui sera."

"Nonsense…there's still time." James grasped her hands in his. "One more dance? "

Margaret mulled it over for a moment. She did so want to dance, but the tone of the night was already ruined. "If you don't enjoy the rest of the night, you've let them win." James nodded at the waterfront.

"Alors laissez-nous danser, le capitaine."

"Laissez-nous danser, ma belle."

* * *

Though the party continued well into the night, most people could talk of nothing but the brazen explosion on the river. Most people tried to remain indoors, the delicate noses of the upper crust offended by the smell of burning pitch and hempen rope that drifted up from the wreckage. James hardly let Margaret leave his side, but the house grew stale and hot with the press of so many bodies. They went outside and sat on one of the stone benches that lined the walks.

"I assume that Colonel Tavington will be leaving in the early hours tomorrow." Margaret said into the darkness. "He'll want to track the ghost as best he can."

"I think he'll have to wait. He and Borden are still inside….if the officers aren't well rested, we'll be in for a rough day tomorrow."

The evening had grown chill, the humidity of the day turning the evening air damp and cool. Margaret wrapped her arms around her middle and chafed her arms, trying to stay warm and cease the slight shivers that seemed to be racing up and down her arms. James shrugged out of his coat and draped it across Margaret's shoulders. She smiled her thanks and pulled the collar closer to her bare neck.

"You don't think we should leave then?" She asked, glancing up at the man walking beside her. "So you're prepared for tomorrow?"

"Not if you don't want to." Margaret laughed. She wanted to live in this night forever, in spite of Colonial terrorism. A beautiful dress and handsome man and luxury were all to be had in this place, this night. Returning to the camp was the last thing she wanted.

"A few moments more, then?" She asked, impulsively gripping his hand. "Just another turn around the gardens…" James smiled, his teeth flashing white in the pale light.

"And maybe one more dance?"

"Of course!" Margaret laughed and the two of them strolled into the dark of the night.

Millicent came to find Margaret in the press of people barely an hour later.

"I'm for bed my dear. I'm not as young as I used to be." She smiled, patting cheeks that were still smooth and youthful, in spite of what she said. "When you're ready, do come upstairs to change. You won't wake me at all. I could probably sleep through another explosion!"

"I'm ready now." Margaret smiled. "It's been a wonderful night. More than I could have dreamed." Margaret and Millicent went upstairs and Margaret slowly changed out of the lovely blue and copper gown she'd borrowed and slipped back into her camp dress of petticoat and short gown.

"Good evening my dear. Do write me. Keep me up to date and tell me of your travels and of James' health. Sometimes I think he tries to protect me from the grizzly truths of war."

"I will, I promise." Margaret was suddenly folded into Millicent's perfumed embrace.

"And take care of yourself as well!" She whispered. Margaret nodded and returned the other woman's hug. She had hardly felt this level of compassion since her mother had married John. It felt good to be cared about, even if only for a moment. Margaret retreated from the room and went down the back stairs and out the warming kitchen door. A shadow detached itself from the low bushes of the walk way and Margaret half screamed in terror, grasping her chest lest her heart burst through her ribs.

"It's just me, Margaret." James stepped into the faint light and Margaret relaxed. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"What are you _doing_ back here?" Margaret hissed, calming her rattled nerves. "You scared me half to death!"

"I was waiting to escort you. I thought you might try to sneak out the back." Margaret heaved a sigh and started to make her way towards the road that led to the dragoon camp. She and James walked in companionable silence as they neared the camp. Margaret was ducking towards her tent when James suddenly grasped her hand before she could move away.

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?"

"Yes, very much." Margaret smiled in the darkness. "I'm glad you convinced me to go. I'd have regretted not."

"I'm glad you came as well." Margaret was about to pull her hand away, when James' grip tightened slightly, preventing her from going towards her tent. "There's something I have to know first…."

"What's th…?" Margaret had no time to think as James gently tugged her forward and his lips suddenly pressed against hers, effectively rendering her speechless.

Margaret had never felt anything like what she experienced in that brief moment. Her heart beat frantically and her breath stilled. His lips were soft against hers, and warm. In the darkness, Margaret couldn't be sure if her eyes were open, or shut until she made a conscious effort to open them as James eased away.

"Oh…." Margaret breathed softly, touching her fingertips to her lips.

"Good evening, Miss St. Clair." Margaret barely saw his shadow bow and she listened as the tread of his boots disappeared into the camp beyond. She wasn't sure how long she stood there like a ninny before crawling into her bed roll, but she eventually did and as she slept, she dreamt pleasant dreams for the first time in many months.


	9. Promises

Margaret awoke to the full force of the sun shining on her face. She squinted into the bright light and listened—just listened. She could hear bird song, and the sound of a woodpecker or sapsucker pounding on a tree somewhere nearby. The usual sounds of camp were absent though and she rolled over quickly, listening for sounds that just weren't there. She did not think it was because everyone was still abed. The height of the sun told her that it was close to the noon hour. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders and left her tent, standing in the warm light, she was almost certain she was alone in the dragoon camp. She built up her little fire to fry some oat cakes to break her fast and was just flipping the little cakes over when she heard footsteps in the tall grass behind her. She turned and saw James come up.

"Hello." She said awkwardly as he stepped into her camp. "I thought everyone was gone already."

"No. We'll be leaving soon though." James sat on a log nearby. "I just thought I'd stop in to say good bye."

"Good bye?" Margaret sat back on her heels and stared at the man across from her. "Am I being dispensed with? Never to ride with the royal dragoons ever again?"

"You know the Colonel won't release you." James whispered.

"Then you aren't saying good bye. You're merely telling me that the dragoons are riding out in pursuit of the terrorists who blew up the Lord General's things and that I am not invited." She smiled, eliciting the same reaction from James.

"Very astute, scout." Margaret and James both turned at the sound of Colonel Tavington's voice. "You are not invited. The good doctors convinced me that you should stay and assist them for the time being. Apparently they think you are of some use."

"So did you." Margaret answered flatly. "Otherwise, you'd have cut me loose long ago." Margaret thought she saw the man's mouth twitch.

"Captain Wilkins, you are needed." James stood from her camp fire and placed his helmet on his head. He nodded at her once and then walked past the Colonel. "Your evening was enjoyable I trust?"

"Very." Margaret remained standing and watched as the Colonel came closer. "Is there a reason you've stopped by this morning? Or are you only hear to make idle conversation?"

"No, I'm here for a purpose." Tavington stood directly in front of her invading her space. "I came to gain a promise from you."

"A promise?" Margaret finally crouched to remove her breakfast from the heat of the fire. "What sort of promise?"

"One in which you promise not to flee."

"I haven't left before this, what makes you think I will now?" Margaret stared at the Colonel, crossing her arms over her chest. "What's changed?"

"The information I gave you last night." Tavington hooked a loose lock of her hair in his finger and swept it behind her shoulder. "Your step-father's family having not been harmed last summer?"

"I remember what we discussed last night." She said shortly. "Why would that change our arrangement?"

"Because this is the first time you've been left entirely to your own devices." The Colonel responded. Margaret stepped back and stared at the ground a moment. "You're still useful, Scout. I don't want you leaving." He paused a moment. "I need you."

The last was said so quietly she barely heard him. She looked up quickly, all levity gone from the moment.

"What did you say?" Tavington cleared his throat and shook his head.

"I'm only here to secure your promise that you will not run off. You are still an asset to this unit."

"Colonel, I was a burden on my stepfather's household. Who knows, I may still be a burden here. But as you said, I am an asset to this unit and the surgeons. And I do take satisfaction in that."

The Colonel studied her face for a long moment. "Is that your way of promising?"

"I won't leave, Colonel." She answered. "But not because of some strange promise you want from me. I'm here for myself, and because as long as I'm here, I have your promise that John Miller and his family remain unharmed. That bargain does still hold true, does it not?"

"It does."

"Good, then I think we have what we both want…."

"Not hardly." The corner of Tavington's mouth twitched upwards and Margaret watched as he left her camp, stunned at the half smile she'd just seen on his face.

Moments later she heard the thunderous sound of many hooves pounding up the road in pursuit of the phantom rebels who had destroyed a ship and the Lord General's replacement wardrobe.

* * *

With no one dictating orders to her, Margaret lounged about the camp for some time and even managed a brief nap in the afternoon sun, so tired was she after the long night before. The oppressive silence of the evening camp did not encourage wandering about, and Margaret spent the night beside her fire, finishing her mending.

The next day she was up with the sun and made her way to the hospital, feeling guilty for she'd not prepared any of the salves she said she would.

"Ah, there's our lady of the woods!" Doctor Frasier beamed when she entered the hospital. "How good of you to join us today."

"I know, I should have been here yesterday, but after the ball…."

"Ah! So you were there!" Doctor Frasier stopped sorting bandages and came around the work table to take her hands. "And did our little cinder girl turn into a princess?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say 'Princess'…."

"But you were transformed?"

"By the grace of friends, if not magic." Margaret sighed. "But I didn't get those soaps made. I just didn't have time what with all the…"

"Oh, we still have plenty!" Doctor Frasier handed her an armful of bandages and waved towards the crowded main room of the hospital. "But we have much work that needs to be done…."

Margaret barked a small laugh and nodded. She moved around the ward, treating the wounds she could and talking with the more alert soldiers. Just as she had told Tavington, it felt good to be useful.

Margaret was helping Doctor Frasier make a poultice when a loud crash sounded beside them. Tools skittered across the floor and glass shattered. Margaret turned to see Doctor Anders bending stiffly to retrieve the tools he'd just dropped. She bent to help him, but the grouchy doctor snarled at her; Margaret stood and backed away, forced to watch as the old man struggled to clean up the mess. Margaret went back to stand beside doctor Frasier and continued her work.

"It's his hands." The Doctor Frasier whispered. "He's afraid if anyone knew how stiff they were getting, he'd be kicked out of the army, and this is the only life he's known." Margaret watched as Doctor Anders set down his burden and looked at his gnarled hands. She moved quietly to stand beside him and looked at where he was rubbing the joints.

"Have you tried an infusion of Parsley to bring the swelling down?" She asked quietly. The man pulled his hands from her view and glared at her.

"What business is it of yours?"

"I was merely going to suggest something else if you had." The man glared at her. "My mother often swore by a tincture of Juniper for women when they got…"

"I'm not a woman in child bed." Doctor Anders hissed angrily.

"The bodies are not so different." Margaret shot back. "Is it not worth a try? Besides, I thought that it might help that man's swelling."

Before Margaret left, Doctor Anders charged her with finding juniper or some other plant to help reduce swelling and inflammation.

"For the lad with the swelling on the knee." The man said rubbing his hands. "If there's anything out there that can alleviate his pain and bring the swelling down, I'm sure he'd appreciate it."

"Of course Doctor." Margaret said with a small bow of her head. "And if there happens to be some left over, I'm sure someone suffering the ill effects of arthritis could put it to use." Doctor Anders scowled at her even as Doctor Frasier chuckled beside him. Doctor Anders muttered something in German and wandered back into the hospital. Doctor Frasier moved forward to take both of Margaret's hands in his own.

"You are a font of knowledge dear girl. We shall see you again soon then?"

"Yes, far more frequently than normal. With the dragoons gone, I'm free to do as I please. Tomorrow I'll go out and find those herbs you wanted though." Margaret sighed. "The sooner we can get the swelling down, the better."

"Indeed. He may very well transform into a dragon or ogre and we can't have that now, can we?"

Margaret laughed. "Honestly, how many of those fairy stories have you read?"

"I have grandchildren Miss St. Claire. They adore hearing their grandpapa read stories to them."

"So then all of them?"

"All of them. Five or six times over."

"Do you miss them? Your grandchildren?"

"Every day my dear. Every single day." Doctor Frasier sighed. "But, I'm needed here, so here I am. Do have a wonderful evening Miss St. Claire. We'll see you in a few days?"

"Yes. In a few days' time with the antidote for our ogre." Doctor Frasier laughed and Margaret smiled before returning to the lonely camp.

* * *

Margaret was awake early and ate a cold breakfast so she wouldn't have to struggle with dew-damp wood and putting the fire out before she left. She took up a large basket and placed a small knife, a trowel and a hand held reaper into it along with leather thongs to bind some of the herbs with and cheese cloth to wrap others in. She smiled as she tied a shawl around her shoulders and pinned her plaited hair into a loose knot at the base of her neck. It seemed like years had passed by since the night of the ball at the plantation home and not a matter of days. With a cleansing sigh, she stepped into the fog that clung to the trees in the early light and set out in search of the secret places that would give up healing herbs.

"_When Daisies pied and violets blue _

_and lady smocks all silver white_

_and cuckoo buds of yellow hue_

_do paint the meadow with delight_

_the cuckoo then on every tree_

_mocks married men…"_

Margaret had taken to singing sometime in the middle morning. She wasn't sure when or why, but she was enjoying the fresh air and the smells of earth and herbs that clung to her. Sometimes the songs were in French, other times in English. Sometimes she'd sing through the same song twice in a row; once in French and then again in English. She so seldom got to speak French anymore, she feared she might lose the ability to speak it if she didn't find some way to keep it in use. Margaret followed her nose and found a patch of mint leaves growing thick around the base of a tree. Gently, Margaret lifted several of the new plants from their home on the forest floor and wrapped them in the cheese cloth. Farther on she found spotted jewelweed. Later she found cattail rushes growing thick along the base of a creek and farther on sassafras trees growing in a thick cluster. As the sun moved higher into the sky, Margaret grew thirstier and she began to search for deep water that didn't smell of the swamps that were everywhere. She meandered through the woods, keeping an eye out for soft ground while also keeping an eye out for the herbs she still needed. She was just ducking beneath a low hanging branch when a man stepped out in front of her. Margaret gasped and stepped back quickly, nearly losing her balance as she caught her heel against the roots of the tree.

"No worries, ma'am…no worries….didn't mean to startle you." The man said, taking his hat off and holding his hands out to the side. "Truth be told, I think you startled me just as much as I did you…" The man clapped a hand against his heart and smiled at her revealing long yellow teeth.

"Who are you? What are you doing out here?"

"I'm a scout for His Majesty's army." The man said. "I'm scouting. What's a pretty thing like you doing out here?"

"I'm gathering herbs." Margaret hefted the basket so the man could see the proliferation of herbs she'd found.

"Makin' a salad?" The man's nose wrinkled, looking at the abundance of new shoots and roots in her basket.

"Medicines." Margaret ducked around the tree and continued past the man. The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled in warning as the man fell in to step beside her. "I work in the surgery, at Middleton Place." Margaret continued. Something about the man gave her the shivers and she chose not to tell him she was affiliated with the dragoons.

"Lookin' for anything in particular?"

"Water for now." Margaret swiped at her brow. "I was hoping to find juniper, but haven't found any yet."

"Juniper…the one with the black berries?" The man asked, scratching his chin. "Makes fine alcohol?"

"Yes." The man darted ahead and held back a branch for Margaret to maneuver beneath. She knew some people used the berries to make illicit alcohol in the woods. It was potent stuff, less refined than the Genevre of the old world, but it did the trick.

"Doctors," The man spat. "Cain't do nothing right 'cept get a man drunk out of his mind…."

"Juniper is used for a good deal more than just making whiskey." Margaret felt the need to defend the doctors she was working with. "The bark is good for staunching blood flow and the needles and berries are good for swelling and inflammation…helps bring it down."

"Pretty sure there's one growing up yonder….follow the creek for about a half a mile or so and it's up in the bend." Margaret stopped and stared at the man. "Could kill two birds with the same stone if'n you trust me enough to foller along."

Margaret _didn't_ trust this man-not as far as she could throw him—and something in her rebelled at the notion of following him farther into the woods, but she did so want to bring back the juniper berries and bark to make the tincture for Dr. Anders.

"If you're certain?" She finally asked. The man nodded and headed off into the underbrush, with a short wave over his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, Margaret ducked into the brush behind him and followed as best she could through the foliage.

Margaret and the man crossed a roadway and continued into the deep woods. Margaret stopped briefly to gather up some mushrooms and hoped she would remember how to get back to the road. If her mental map was any good, the road was one she knew and would take her back to Middleton. The journey was mostly silence. The man asked some questions, but seemed just as content to let her silently collect what she found along the way. It seemed like no time at all when they reached a wide flat place where the creek ran deep and smooth. Margaret could smell the juniper berries and see the dense evergreens growing beside the creek. She smiled at the man, who grinned back and she went quickly to harvest what she needed from the tree. She was just placing her first cuttings into the basket when she noticed how dry her other items were becoming. She went to where the creek raced deep and black, and started dipping the herbs in. The cheese cloth would keep them damp enough for her to hike back on the road and get to Middleton where she could begin to treat them so they could be used. She'd have to hurry. Already the mint was beginning to dry and whither, which would make it hard to replant or use in oils. She began to repack her basket carefully, placing things into the basket with care to best preserve them. Bending low over the creek, she took one last deep drink of water and rose to collect the last of what she wanted from the juniper tree.

That was when she realized how quiet it had become. No birds sang, and the buzz of cicadas and summer crickets seemed far away. Glancing around, she realized the man she'd followed here was gone as well. A tree branch snapped across the creek, drawing her attention to a man, different than the one she had followed, stepping through the underbrush, a hunting rifle in his hands. Another crack drew her attention to a man riding a horse into the creek downstream. She stepped back slowly, clutching her basket close to her and fumbling for the knife inside it.

"Not so wise as you thought." She turned to see the man with yellow teeth creeping from the woods. He moved slowly, as one might if they were stalking an animal. Margaret realized she was his prey and she'd fallen into his trap.

"What do you want?"

"We want to teach your friend a lesson."

"Which Friend?" Margaret stepped aside, trying to circle around the man hemming her into the creek.

"The Butcher." Margaret took another cautious step, keeping the man in sight. "We know all about you…."

"You know nothing about me." Margaret hoped her voice didn't shake as her level of fear ratcheted higher. "You must be mistaken….confused."

"What about that inn last fall? Don't deny that that was you ended up getting four men's necks stretched."

"I didn't do that. They did. They were traitors…." The man shook his head as he stepped closer to her.

"You are a spy. We saw you on the road, leaving with those dragoons…."

"I'm not a spy. I work in the surgery…" The man lunged at her and she swung her basket, striking him in the face. She turned, ready to bolt away and found that she was trapped by others. "No…." Margaret wielded the knife poorly as one of the men lunged at her. He blocked the swinging blade and flung her away from him. She lost her balance on the uneven ground, and the knife flew from her hand as she sprawled into the dirt. She tried to crawl forward and retrieve it, stretching out to grasp the blade and saw a boot come down on her wrist. Pain burst up her arm and she tried to pull her hand back to no avail. She screamed as the man towering over her twisted his foot cruelly down, crushing her wrist beneath his weight. He lifted his foot from her wrist and kicked her savagely in the ribs. She rolled away, instinctively trying to put space between her and her attacker. She scrambled towards the creek, only to see another man step from the bushes. He grasped her arms and hauled her upright, giving her a good shake as he did so. Margaret felt her teeth clack together with the force of it, and her hair fell from its loose arrangement as pins were shook loose. The man glared down at her, gripping her upper arm painfully. She braced her hands against his chest and tried to push away.

"You are a spy, and you will be punished." The man growled down at her. She tried to strike him, but her right wrist hurt badly from where it had been stomped and she was finding it hard to draw a full breath. Margaret turned her head slightly as she heard something behind her. Pain slammed through her head and she went limp, unable to control her legs any longer as one of the other men swung a short cudgel at the side of her head. The last thing she heard was distant laughter as blackness swirled across her vision and sent her into oblivion.

* * *

James Wilkins walked through the camp in the fading light and made his way through the avenues towards Margaret's tent. His heart sped at the thought of seeing her after over a week of having not been near her. The kiss they had shared the night of the ball had lingered in the back of his mind; he wanted to further their relationship, needed to talk to her, see her…had to hear her tell him that she wanted the same thing he did. He approached the stand of trees where she'd erected her lean-to and looked at the empty camp. He glanced around, hoping she'd step from the bushes on her way back from the surgery but she wasn't there. He walked through the trees on the little path and wound his way up towards the Plantation house, thinking he'd meet her on the trial. Something started to worry him as he continued closer and closer to the house and still hadn't seen her on the path heading home.

"_Perhaps she's been staying at the surgery later."_ James could hear cries and shrieks as he neared the surgery. There had obviously been a skirmish and the surgery was flooded with new arrivals. His mind and body eased at the thought that surely she must be inside assisting with the newly wounded men. James was met with scurrying doctors and orderlies as he entered the building, but no sign of Margaret. He looked around the bedlam and found a doctor attempting to extract a bullet from a writhing infantryman.

"Hold still man!" The doctor shouted. James backed from the hospital. This was neither the time nor place to ask after Margaret, she must be busy helping the doctors.

But the next morning, her camp was unchanged and the coals just as cold. James rode his horse up to the hospital to see if she'd stayed there overnight. After the anarchy he'd witnessed the night before, James found the calm of the hospital eerily quiet.

"What can I do for you young man?" A weary looking Doctor asked him as he ducked his head beneath the door. "You don't appear to be wounded…ill maybe?"

"No sir. I'm quite fit."

"Then what are you here for?" Another doctor snapped at him.

"I was hoping I might speak with Margaret a moment. I came last night but you were very busy."

"Why would you come here to ask after Margaret?" The doctor asked. "She should be in camp. Hasn't been up here in days."

"She isn't in camp. Her fire was cold and she did not sleep there last night." James' heart raced.

"We shouldn't have let her go out there." The old doctor sat down heavily and rubbed at his arthritic old hands. "I shouldn't have let her go after that plant."

"What plant? What are you talking about?" James looked at the two doctors who looked visibly worried. "Where did she go?"

"Margaret went out to gather herbs and some barks to help us supplement our supply." The other man said. "She's been doing so for some time. The army's shipments have been rather stymied by the locals, as you know."

"And she went out searching for plants? How long does that usually take her?"

"She's usually back fairly quickly." Both doctors stared at one another. "Usually she brings things back straight away…we have a still room set up for her use. She's very particular about how things are stored so that they can be used."

"When did you see her last?" James was well and truly worried now. Anything could have happened over the course of a day or two.

"Three days ago?" The doctors stared at one another and then shrugged their shoulders.

"Perhaps four…" The crankier of the two doctors said. "Things get hectic around here some times."

* * *

Colonel Tavington slammed his palm upon the camp desk and stared up at Captain Wilkins.

"What do you mean, she's missing?"

"The doctors haven't seen her in several days and she hasn't been to her camp for some time. Everything was just as it had been when we returned yesterday afternoon."

Colonel Tavington stomped passed James and headed towards Margaret's area of the camp.

_She promised…._

Tavington touched his fingertips to the cold wood in her fire pit and looked around her camp area, taking in the blankets, the few baskets holding mending and herbs, and the pots and pans stowed off to one side.

"Colonel?" The Colonel ignored James Wilkins' query and moved around the camp slowly. He went to where there was a small cache of food being swarmed over by flies. "Sir?" The Captain asked again.

"Captain Wilkins, if you were to flee his majesties army, wouldn't you take sundries with you?" Captain Wilkins stood beside his commanding officer and looked down at the rotted ham and apples that Margaret had obviously laid aside for a future meal.

"She must have intended to return…."

"Gather a small party. We'll search for her." The Colonel looked out into the woods as if he could see her through the trees. "If she's hurt, we'll find her. If she was taken by force….."

James shuddered at the idea. If she was hurt, they might be able to get to her, but if she'd been taken by force, there was no knowing where she might be or what had happened to her.


	10. Regret

Thanks for the great reviews and the follows...I really appreciate it. It makes me feel like I could build my own sand box rather than live and play in someone else's all the time.

* * *

It had been three days since Margaret had been kidnapped while foraging in the woods.

When she'd first come out of the black abyss of unconsciousness she'd tried to fight her bonds, but the pain was too great. She'd been unable to move or try to get out of the thick rope binds because of her injured wrist. She had tasted blood in her mouth and had struggled to see what was around her, but darkness had fallen and she was only able to see the twilight blue of the early evening sky and the silhouette of sycamore and yellow pine trees.

When morning came, she'd been hauled roughly to her feet by one of the rebels and the binds that joined her hands had been severed. She was allowed little privacy to relieve herself and she was too weak and disoriented to try to run. Her head pounded with every step she took, and without knowing where she was, she could not run away. She tried to see something, anything, of where she was, but there was nothing to see but swamps. No discerning landmarks at all; just an endless expanse of black swamp. She gingerly touched the side of her head where she'd been struck and hissed when she found the large knot at her temple. No wonder her head pounded as if a blacksmith were pounding an anvil inside her skull. Her guard grabbed hold of her arm and forced her to move quickly through the tall grasses and puddles towards an elevated rise. In the early light, there was little to see and once she'd been dragged back to where she'd spent the night, a burlap sack was placed over her head. Slowly, through this first day, she felt the sun beat down on her through the thin fabric of her dress. She saw nothing and heard no one. She wondered if she had been abandoned. She shouted a few times for help, but her head rang with the effort and she quickly gave up. When night fell, her hood was removed and she was given a chunk of hard corn bread and rancid salt pork and a small cup of brackish water to wash it down. She was allowed to relieve herself again after dark and then found herself bound and in the same place she'd sat all day.

The night that passed was long and cold. All day the sun had seeped into her and she'd spent the day sweating beneath it. Now, in the chill of the night, the sweat had cooled against her skin and she was unable to grasp her arms or huddle into her own embrace. She didn't sleep much at all that night.

The next day went much the same. The only sound to penetrate her sensory deprived world was the sound of birds chirping in the trees around her and the heated, hushed arguments of her captors. Beneath the smell of men and sweat, she could smell the swamp. But this information did not help her in the slightest.

That evening, late in the night, she heard someone approach where she lay and haul her to her feet roughly. She was dragged some distance and then forced to sit on a log. Firelight flickered through the weave in the burlap sack and she sighed as the warmth of the fire eased through her dress.

"You will look into the fire the entire time I am talking to you. Nowhere else. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Margaret answered. The sack was pulled roughly from her head and she tried to avert her eyes as the light from the fire burned into them. Someone grasped her hair from behind and forced her to face the fire.

"What's your name?"

"Margueritte St. Claire."

"Francais?" The voice was different, heavy with a French accent.

"_Non_." Margaret answered. "_Ma mère était__._"

"St. Claire….I recognize that name." Margaret wanted to glance at the speaker, but dared not move her eyes from the fire. "Why do I know that name?"

"My mother was a mid-wife for many years." Margaret swallowed hard and rambled on. "She and my father lived in the swamps. She nursed the women of the swamps and surrounding villages through their birthings…."

"Vivienne." Margaret wanted to see the speaker who knew her mother, but did as she was bid lest she be struck…or worse. She nodded without taking her eyes from the flames. "She was a good woman."

Words passed angrily around the fire but quickly came to a halt.

The Frenchman chimed in again, his words angry. "Her mother might have been a good French woman, but her daughter has no such redeeming qualities."

"Why are you helping the British?" The first man asked again.

"My Mother married a man…had children by him. His family was threatened by the dragoons….I offered myself up to save my mother's children." Margaret felt a tear slide unbidden from the corner of her eye.

"John Miller."

"You know him? Is he safe?! What of the children? Where are they? Are they still at the farm?" Margaret could not stop the flow of questions as they came to mind, nor the instinct to look across the fire at the man who might know of the whereabouts of her family.

"No more questions!" The man who had been standing nearest her stepped forward and cuffed her, hard enough to knock her from the log she'd been sitting on and onto the ground. "Keep your eyes on the fire or you'll get more of that."

"Step away from her now." Margaret lay still as she heard the distinctive click of a pistol being cocked. "Step back." Someone lifted Margaret back to a seated position, her hands trapped between her back and the log she'd been sitting on. The man who had struck her was moving away from the fire lit circle and into the darkness beyond, the sound of the underbrush the only sign of where he'd gone.

"Are you alright?" Margaret wanted to glare at the questioner; to laugh in his face at the absurdity of his question. "You were told to keep your eyes on the fire. You disobeyed, but he shouldn't have hit you like that. Are you alright?"

"As well as can be expected." Margaret answered quietly. Her eyes closed as she stared at her skirt. She let her tongue touch the cut at the corner of her mouth that was bleeding anew. God she must look a mess…..

"Why would the dragoons accept you into their fold? What were you doing for them?"

"I was a scout for them. I showed them some of the old trails, how to get through the swamps." She swallowed. "I work mostly in the hospital now though."

"You also spy." Another voice said softly.

"No!" Margaret closed her eyes against the smoke as the wind shifted. "It wasn't spying." Margaret tried to think back on what Tavington had called it when she herself had called it spying. "I was gathering information…." She said weakly, remembering her own reaction to that phrase. "If I didn't, Tavington would have hurt my family…."

"Your actions let good men die. Do you think you should go un-punished?" The Frenchman asked.

"I did nothing wrong!" Margaret shouted. "Vigilante justice will get this country nowhere."

"Then you aren't even a little repentant?" Margaret didn't respond. Of course she felt guilty for what had happened at the inn, but to admit so would admit that she was guilty of committing a crime. She felt deep in her heart that she had committed no crime. She had merely provided information to the dragoons who may or may not have murdered the rebels.

"I committed no crime for which to be repentant. I merely turned in those who were committing treason against the King." Margaret answered softly. Silence descended, the sound of wood popping in the fire the only noise other than those of the evening swamp birds.

"You have been tried." The first man finally said. "We have heard what you had to say. Based on what we know to be true, you will be punished for the crimes you committed against us." The hood was placed back over her head and she was thrown to the ground far from the fire, forced to listen to the hushed whispers of the men who judged her as they plotted out her punishment. Lying on the cold hard ground, Margaret cried quietly. Would they kill her? Would she be killed by these men who perceived some strange crime against them? She pulled at the bonds again in the darkness, trying to get her left wrist out of the binds but eventually fell asleep, too exhausted and sore to struggle any further.

The third day had gone the same as the first. Silence engulfed Margaret's world and she again feared she'd been abandoned while still trussed and unable to fend for herself. Perhaps her punishment was to be starved to death and left to nature's mercy. She screamed for help as loud as she could. Hoping to hear someone looking for her, she waited for some time between each shout. Soon her head hurt and her mouth went dry, but there was no rescue. As the sun eased down, her captors returned, fed her, allowed her to relieve herself and then bound her tighter than ever and left her alone all night to wonder at what her punishment might be.

And there she lay still, on this, the fourth day of her captivity. She lay on the ground counting off the events of the days that had gone by and organized the information in her mind. Perhaps she would be permitted to live. Maybe they intended only to scare her…or brand her for her transgressions. That wouldn't be so bad. She could live; maybe she'd even be released to her stepfather. She was engrossed in hopeful thoughts, thoughts of being reunited with her mother's children and a happy homecoming when the hood was abruptly yanked from her head. She blinked into the bright morning sun and shied away from the hands that reached for her, pulling her upright and roughly propelling her towards others, whose greedy hands reached and grappled for her. She fell to the ground when one of the men stepped aside, failing to support her has they spun her around a circle of them. Her legs felt as if a thousand spiders were biting up and down them, so long had she been lying in a crumpled heap upon the ground. She tried to wiggle her toes or move her feet, but could barely move. She squinted up and tried to push away from the dirty rebels that reached out towards where she lay in a heap upon the ground.

"Let's have that pretty dress." One of them growled, his crooked, dirty teeth revealed as he grinned at her. He hauled her to her feet, holding her by her shoulders so his companion could work at the laces at her back. Something in Margaret snapped and she was filled with new energy. Margaret fought back, screeching and fighting. She tried to twist away from her captors; tried to escape the man that was undressing her. She saw a partial wall that seemed to lead nowhere. She heard shuffling on the other side of it, and saw a shadow move across the flag stones that covered the little island. There was a desk, and candelabras on the other side of the wall, as well as large trunks.

_Flagstones, a wall, furnishings….._

"Help me….please, help me!" Margaret shouted to the person on the other side of the wall. Perhaps it was another rebel; maybe it was someone else. How was she to know? She was desperate to try anything. She flicked her gaze back to the man in front of her. "Don't do this...please." She begged. "Please don't do this…whatever you're planning for me…" She hadn't ever begged the dragoons...not even for information on her family. Why was she begging these...ruffians? But then, she'd never felt _this _level of fear in her time with the dragoons. Certainly she'd been afraid in her first few months, but this….this was terror of a whole new kind. Her dress loosened around her shoulders, the man behind her working quickly to ease it down her arms.

"We'll need to untie her." He said. _Yes_! If her hands were free, perhaps she could fight back. She could get away. "Hold her still." The ropes that bound her wrists snapped free.

Margaret moved quickly in spite of the pain that raced up and down her arms. Even though the other man still held her shoulders, she brought her hand swiftly up between them in a move she'd seen only in drunken brawls at the fort and thrust the heel of her hand into his nose. She brought her knee into the man's groin and made to dart past him-anywhere but where she was. Her eyes watered painfully against the daylight as she spun away from her captors.

The second man made to grab her but she clawed him with her nails. He cried out, raging like an injured bull as she left several angry scratches across his face.

"Bitch!" The hand that came down at her met with a ferocious force, colliding painfully with the side of her head. A dull roar filled her ears as she fell to the ground. Reeling, she felt someone grab her upper arm, turn her over, and strike her again.

"Enough!" A third voice shouted. The hand that had grasped her arm released quickly as someone held her abuser back. "The Colonel and the others are only going to be gone long enough to give you enough time to do this...don't waste any more than you have to."

_Colonel._ Even as terrified as she was Margaret's quick mind filed the rank away for later. If she got out of this alive, she'd report that she had been held at the orders of a Colonel of the Colonial militia. Margaret tried to crawl away from the men arguing above her but they were not as distracted as she thought they might have been and one of the men stomped on the hem of her dress and she was prevented from moving. She glared up at the men, their faces obscured as she was forced to glance up towards the sunlight. The third man grasped the collar of her dress and yanked it down even as Margaret scrabbled against him. Seams split and bruised her arms as they tore around her flesh. She shrieked and tried to slide away from the men towering over her.

It was as if they were everywhere.

"Stand her up." The second man said to the third. They hauled her to her feet, letting her ruined dress pool at her ankles. Still fighting, Margaret tried to attack the third man as well, but he caught her already injured wrist in a painful grip. "Now, now...none of that missy." He shook her by the wrists and smiled as he saw her wince. "Still hurts? I bet it hurts real bad if I..." The man grasped the injured wrist harder and Margaret fell to her knees, a strangled cry forcing its way from her lips.

"You promised not to hurt her." A deep voice came from the area of the doorway, but Margaret was focused on where the second man still had a hold of her hands and was binding them in front of her with a rough length of rope. "You said you was only going to scare her."

"Oh...she did it to herself!" The second man scowled at the doorway where the voice had come from. The first man, who she had kneed in the groin, was recovering from the injury dealt him, his eyes blazing fire down at her.

"She deserves far worse than what we planned for her!" He hissed, his voice breathy with his injury. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back, the back of his hand crashed into her cheek, the force of the blow sending her crashing to the flagstones. She sprawled along the flat stones at their feet and stared at the blood that quickly began to drop to the stones and the back of her hand. She sobbed once, her insides feeling like water, her cheek burning painfully. A sticky trail of spit hit Margaret on her cheek. Shock slithered down her spine and she lay immobile, covered in dirt, blood and now spit. "Stand her up again!" Margaret was hauled upright and the men pulled her arms forward to tie her hands back together. "Get that wildcat properly trussed so she don't go whaling on us no more."

She tried to flex her wrists against the tight ties that bound her as she was hauled to her feet. Everything hurt. Everything burned. Her stomach roiled and she felt as if she might vomit.

_Keep it together!_

She was dragged to the edge of the flat area and shown a small boat that bobbed in the black waters of the swamp. "Do you know what we're going to do with you? Hmm?" The voice ghosted across her cheek and neck as she stared down at the vessel. "We're going to put you in there and let you float, real slow, back to your Colonel. Won't that be nice?"

Margaret turned quickly, staring at the man who was about to set her free. What was the point in capturing her if they were just going to return her to Colonel Tavington a few days later? They'd gotten nothing from her and now she'd seen at least a little of their hide away…..

"Oh, but you see...you won't be going alone. We're going to send some of our friends to keep you company." An ambush then...Margaret could well imagine that the doctors had realized she had yet to return from her foray into the woods. Perhaps they'd turned the army out to search for her….if they had, her rescuers would be caught in a trap, and she was the bait.

"If you're t-t-trying to use me for an ambush, it won't w-work." Margaret said shaking her head, angry at the fear dripping from every word she uttered. "The dragoons were gone when you took me, there's no way of knowing where they are now, or when they'll return."

"Not to worry. You won't be alone for long. Someone is bound to find you…" The men laughed viciously as a dirty hand grasped her chin from the other side, drawing her attention away from the first man on her left to the second on her right where something hissed. Margaret gasped and pushed away from the man that held an angry copperhead in his hands. Roaring laughter filled her ears as she watched the man drop the snake into a burlap sack, which he then dropped into a canvas bag. He tied off the strings to the bag and chucked it into the boat. Margaret stared up at the man as he grinned down at her. "Don't you worry...you two will have chaperones."

Margaret was forced to her knees on the edge of the little island and watched as one of the men brought a stick forward. It was about as wide as both of her thumbs put together and had a yellow rag wound around it. "Open wide..." He leered at her. Margaret locked her jaw in defiance and stared angrily up at him. "Come on now, pet. Don't be like that." He stepped closer to her, but she turned her head from him.

"Enough." She felt someone come up behind her, their feet falling on either side of her knees where she knelt. A grimy hand clapped down over her face and pinched her nose shut. Margaret brought her bound hands up and fought the man cutting off her air supply. She struggled, her feet kicking against the flagstones, elbows flailing uselessly.

"Come on...open wide." Margaret's body rebelled and she gasped for breath, at which point the stick was rudely forced into her mouth. The stick was shoved roughly to the back, and she felt her dry, chapped lips crack around the crude gag. A length of fabric was looped around the back of her head, over the ends of the stick and pulled roughly back to the nape of her neck where the man behind her tied it in a cruel knot. The stick pulled horribly at her mouth, like a bit in a horse's mouth. She screeched at the pain it caused and could taste blood where the old cuts at the corner of her mouth re-opened and started to weep anew. Another length of fabric was quickly tied over her eyes. She felt something wet against her closed eyes, a trail dripping down either cheek as laughter spread amongst the group. She tried to jerk away but her chin and forehead were held roughly in place and she could not move. She smelled blood, tasted it, felt as if she was drowning in it. She tried to scream, but only a whimper came out.

"In you go." Margaret was lowered into a pair of waiting arms. She felt the boat bob beneath her and she stumbled. "Easy now, have a lie down..." Margaret struggled even as she was forcefully pressed into the bottom of the boat. She could feel the sack moving near her feet. Margaret screamed even as another sack was placed over her head, to ensure she saw nothing.

"Easy does it now." Her spine was pressed flat to the keel of the boat and her arms were drawn tight over the top of her head and fastened to the bow of the boat. Her shoulders burned at the positioning and she thought if she struggled too much she might dislocate them. The sack near her right leg writhed-a twisting reminder that she would not be alone in the boat. The bag was shifted from a spot beside her right leg to a place between her ankles. Margaret shoved her feet away from the bag that hissed and writhed between them.

"Look boys! See how she spreads her legs?" Laughter roared again and Margaret knew her face was red with embarrassment. The boat shifted as her captors got out and then she felt the boat rock as it was pushed out into the stagnant current of the swamp.

"Let's see how she likes her chaperones, eh fellas?" Something light landed next to her with a dull thud, then several more. Close to hyperventilating she let out a piercing shriek when she felt something slither across her neck, beneath the sack of canvas over her head. Margaret felt the dry sandpapery skin against her fingers as something else slid down her arm and coiled around her elbow.

_Snakes!_

Margaret screamed. Every time a snake brushed against her leg, or arm, she tried to hold the sound within her, but then another would move around her ankle, or by her knee and she'd scream, unable to move away, or see the creatures.

_This is how I am going to die._ She thought. _Trussed up in a boat with snakes, scared to death._

Margaret arched away as one of the serpents moved near her shoulders. She felt the boat lurch as it was pulled across the swamp faster than was possible on the current. She heard the men moving through the water, probably on horseback.

"Ease 'er into the creek!" The boat bumped against a rock or a cypress knee and the snakes in the boat, she wasn't sure how many there were, hissed and tossed angrily. She felt the boat catch the current and she bounced down the small tributary. A sharp pain pierced her shoulder as she struggled in the bottom of the boat and she howled. Whatever had bit her was small and she hoped it wasn't a venomous copperhead. She howled again, feeling it clamp down on her skin a second time, feeling the coils of the creature near her right cheek. Tears streamed from her eyes to be caught by the dirty rag that covered her them. She could hear the snakes hissing and felt two coiling against her leg. She felt one of them dodge as the other attacked, sinking fangs into her calf. It was too much. It was all too much.

Margaret fell into the blissful black of unconsciousness.

* * *

Thanks again to all who have been reading. Honestly, this is where this story started. Two years ago, my place of work got a new snake as a 'featured creature' and I ultimately refused to do any more programs because of my debilitating fear of the snake. I started writing this story while I was being tortured by my co-workers while they were handling the snake, threatening to put it on my desk. They thought it was funny, I thought it was sick.

Either way you view it, I hope you continue to enjoy the story.


	11. Search and Rescue

_Sorry it took so long for me to update. I was out of town on a family vacation and had no internet. I hope you enjoy this chapter._

* * *

Nearly all of the dragoons had turned out to be included in the search party to look for Margaret. The Colonel had split them into two groups and sent them in opposite directions, one following the river, the other following the roads into the swamps. Though some men thought she had merely taken the dragoons' absence as an opportunity to turn coat and run to her family, others were not so sure. Margaret had never expressed a desire to return to her family, and the winter had afforded her long periods of time during which to flee if she'd wanted to. Why would she have chosen to run when Middleton Place was farther from her Stepfather's home than Fort Carolina?

After several hours, they came upon the creek and saw Margaret's basket, still containing herbs and mushrooms, some just as carefully bundled as when she had placed them inside. They had seen the signs of struggle, the marks in the ground where someone had fought off attackers, and found the knife lying amongst last fall's leaves. They'd seen blood on the rocks where someone had fallen injured and a short length of rope had been discarded. The men at the creek saw the rage in Tavington's icy eyes as he took in the scene. It had been tangible, as if the anger in his eyes lowered the temperature of the woods. He'd set them searching the woods for any other signs of Margaret's whereabouts, hoping to track her abductors and punish them mercilessly.

That was where most of the men were in agreement; the colonel was angry that the rebels had had the audacity to steal something of his. But was the colonel mad that the rebels had stolen his spy, or his lover?

* * *

James Wilkins' stomach had been in knots since he had discovered Margaret was missing. Those knots had grown tighter when he'd seen the scene from which she'd been abducted. From what he observed, he knew she was hurt and that she'd been taken against her will.

_And she had fought like the devil….._

He was probably the only man in the entire army that knew Tavington and Margaret were not lovers. At least he hoped not. He didn't think he could stand to share Margaret's affections. What sort of fool would that make him? And as dangerous as Tavington was….

_No!_

She had never shown affection towards Tavington, and he'd never seen advances from the Colonel towards her, with the exception of the dance they had shared at Middleton. But who knew what happened in the darkness of camp or what went through the mind of a woman willing to live her life surrounded by an army of men. His mind tossed as much as his stomach did. The anxiety that churned within him forced him to face the feelings he had for the scout, turned laundress turned spy. If anything had befallen her he wasn't sure what he'd do or who he'd blame.

The men slowed their horses to a stop and dismounted at the colonel's curt nod. "Let the horses breath. Send a scout up the road to see what our options are. Now!" a young corporal vaulted back into the saddle and kicked his already sweat lathered horse farther up the road.

The men loosened the saddles of their horses, some of them taking the time to brush the beasts down. The officers clustered around the colonel to debate what the next course of action would be.

"It's been at least three days sir." One of the lieutenants muttered. "It's like finding a needle in a haystack."

"You think I don't know that?" The colonel glared at the other man. Colonel Tavington stared out into the tree line. "We'll stop searching at night fall. If she went with them willingly, which I highly doubt, we probably won't find her. If she was captured, they're welcome to keep her for as long as they want her. We won't find her until they want us to anyway."

"But sir..." James stopped short when Tavington's blue eyes settled on him.

"Yes Captain?"

"Nothing." James looked away. The colonel had a point, but it didn't sit well with him. Margaret had left her family to assist them, had remained with the army for the better part of a year, had scrubbed, washed, cleaned and cooked for them. She'd accepted the dangers of spying and done it with little fear and to a great assistance to the British army. Why would she only now decide to make her escape? There had been plenty of chances...she'd been captured by the rebels. James was sure of it; especially after what he'd witnessed at the scene beside the creek. But if the rebels were trying to use her as leverage for something and then realized the Colonel didn't care...would they release her, or dispense of her in a more permanent fashion?

* * *

The guerrillas eased the boat down the narrow creek towards the wider stream that would take the boat near where the dragoons, or anyone else for that matter, were sure to find her. They laughed to themselves, watching the dozen little garter snakes and two larger pilot snakes crawl across the woman in the boat. Once she had quit struggling, the snakes had calmed as well. "Is she dead?" Someone asked.

"No, she's breathing...and bleeding. She fainted is all." The man tugged on his part of the tow line and made the boat bump into a cypress knee, jarring the occupants of the boat. Margaret moaned and then whimpered when she felt one of the snakes move against her side.

"What you go and wake her for? She'll call down the whole British army with her keening."

"I like to hear 'em scream."

Hearing that, Margaret tried not to scream. She wouldn't give the man that kind of satisfaction. Occasionally a howl escaped as the snakes moved unexpectedly against her. She felt one slithering up alongside her leg beneath her petticoats. She kicked out in shock and felt the snake coil back, the sack between her ankles writhed, hissing angrily, emitting the stench of rotting fruit.

_Lay still. Keep calm. Don't let them hear you scream or cry!_

Margaret screamed in spite of what she kept telling herself.

* * *

The dragoons continued up the road, if the trail through the trees could be called that. A deer leapt across the trail in front of the horses, spooking one of the leaders.

"Control your animal captain." The colonel snapped as the other man's horse side stepped. "It was only a deer."

The men moved cautiously through the trees. They were veterans of rebel attacks in close quarters and had grown leery of the dark places in the woods.

"Colonel!" The cry came from up ahead. The young scout returned, his face ashy white and eyes wide with fear. He fairly reeked of it. "Sir, there's something out there."

"Something?" The colonel stared at him, the tuft of fur on his helmet flipping jauntily in the slight breeze that blew between the trees.

"Something keening...I don't know what, but it were an unnatural sound."

"You didn't investigate?" The colonel asked, incredulous.

"N-N-No sir. I came back straight away to report to you. It sounded like a ghost..." The colonel rolled his eyes impatiently and kicked his horse past the frightened scout. "A ghost or THE Ghost?" The Colonel shouted over his shoulder. "There's only one Colonial spirit I care about..."

* * *

"Cast 'er loose!"

_No! No!_ She tried to shout. Anything was better than being cast loose and at the mercy of the current. Even being a prisoner. Margaret felt the boat tug awkwardly and then she was engulfed in silence. She whimpered again, but could only hear the men's laughter behind her get softer. "Tell your colonel we said hello!" One of them shouted as the boat eased its way down the stream.

She felt the boat bounce off rocks, being knocked sideways. In some ways she hoped that the boat would break apart and the snakes would be washed away from her. Then she remembered that snakes could swim, she'd seen them in the swamps. She also remembered that she was tied to the boat and she hoped she found smooth open water soon. The boat bucked and bobbed through the current and spun without someone to steer it. Margaret ground her teeth into the gag and tried to calm herself to keep from vomiting. She didn't know if hours had passed or minutes. She couldn't tell how much time passed between bouts of unconsciousness. She was humming to herself, trying to keep her mind off of the snake near her shoulder when the boat grated against a rock and came to a stop. The impact jostled the bag between her feet and the snake inside the canvas bag hissed, coiling upon itself within the bag, as much a prisoner as she was. She felt every writhing coil as it doubled upon itself curling against her leg.

Margaret's calm shattered; she didn't care anymore. The fear bubbled up inside her and she howled, keening for anyone to hear. She struggled against the ties binding her wrists, trying to loosen the loops that bound her to the boat.

_If only I could sit up, I could get away.._

A cool shadow moved over her and she screamed as the snakes curled closer to her, absorbing her body heat. She screamed around the gag again, sobbing; not caring who heard her or what happened anymore. Her terror had conquered her and all she wanted was to get away, to get out, and to be rid of snakes. One of the snakes tickled her arm and then coiled itself over her elbow. She tensed against the foreign feeling of the creature crawling along her exposed flesh, something flickered lightly against the hair on her arm; probably the snake's tongue. She'd forgotten about the snake hovering near her shoulder and it sank its tiny fangs into her again, chewing on her shoulder. Pain radiated across her bones and she screamed all the louder before her mind finally shut down and she succumbed to the shadows of unconsciousness.

* * *

As the dragoons thundered through the trees, an eerie quiet descended on them. Nothing seemed to move, the only sound the soft shush of last fall's leaves being blown between fat tree trunks. Spanish moss swung gently overhead, fanning men and horses as they moved beneath the overhanging tree branches. The sun was slowly dipping beneath the canopy of the forest, creating long golden shafts of light that were broken up by harsh black shadows of the skeletal cypress and old oak trees. "It is eerie." One of the men whispered behind the colonel. "Too quiet."

The wind shifted, blowing from a different direction, and a mournful wail was born on it. It was an anguished cry that warbled and was suspended on the breeze, ending on a high shriek.

"Banshee!" O'Dell, an Irishman, crossed himself, to the disgust of several of his English protestant comrades. "That's the sound they make, right before death gets called down on an unsuspecting man." Several of the horses backed at the tight hands of their riders, eyes rolling wildly as the sound was brushed past them on the wind.

"That is not the sound of a banshee." Colonel Tavington rolled his own eyes in annoyance. "More than likely it's a fox caught in a snare."

James was not so sure. The sound was terrifying...and sounded too human to be a fox.

"Sir!" One of the lead riders galloped back and waved the unit forward. "I've found something." The colonel spurred his horse and led his men quickly up the road behind the outrider.

Rounding a bend in the narrow roadway, Tavington saw what he initially thought was _someone_ hanging from a tree. His guts turned to water and felt icy within him. He'd not felt this level of abject terror in a long time. He gathered himself, trying desperately to maintain the cool façade he was well known for. A long gown spun and swirled in the breeze and another wail hung on it as the wind tossed leaves and debris past him. The hem of the dress moved idly in a mockery of a dance as it twisted with the wind. _The garment was empty_. Tavington heaved a sigh, his resolve renewed as he squared his shoulders and glared up at the dress that was draped over the branch and secured to it with a length of rope.

"That's hers, isn't it?" One of the men whispered.

James kneed his own horse forward and gazed up at the torn and ragged piece of clothing that was most assuredly Margaret's. She'd worn the dress around camp often, the stains at the knees and along the right side attested to where she often wiped her hand while working and kneeling beside fires. The colonel remained silent. Taking in the torn sleeves, the shredded collar, and what he was certain was blood staining the garment; he wasn't sure what to think. What did this mean? Why had the rebels divested her of her dress and left it as a warning on the roadway? One arm of the dress was tied along the length of the branch, mockingly pointing west into the setting sun. One of the men cut the cords that bound the dress to the branch with his sabre and brought the filthy garment to the colonel. Tavington dismounted and began to study the roadway beneath the dress. There was no sign of who had placed the garment in the tree. No tracks at all, and in the ditch beside the road he found the cut pine boughs that had more than likely been used to sweep the road clean of tracks.

_Definitely rebels then_.

Who else would have done such a thing? Why would someone bother kidnapping a laundress? No, it was the spy she had been that the rebels were after. The Colonel swore beneath his breath. This was his fault. If he'd never asked her to spy, or if he'd been less brutal towards her family, she would not be….what? The Colonel clenched his jaw, and the cynical side of him reared up; this could always be some sort of trap or trick and she was complicit in it.

Just then another of the terrifying screams raced through the trees, from the direction the dress had been pointing.

"Captain!" The colonel plunged into the brush beside the road without a second thought, dropping the ruined dress and drawing his sabre to cut offending branches and vines from his path. James plunged in behind him, trampling the garment and raced in behind the colonel, drawing his own weapon to cut his own path. Others pressed into the dense underbrush and made their way into the forest. It seemed like a long journey through the brush and the brambles of the forest. Eventually the underbrush cleared and the ground grew swampy. The men were careful not to tread into the spongy ground and took their time navigating the safest path through the woods using skills Margaret had taught them. James wanted to scream. He was certain now that the screams they were following belonged to Margaret, he wanted to race in a straight line to get to her. But he knew that doing so would put _him _in danger and the dragoons would waste precious time rescuing him instead of going to Margaret's aid.

And so they trudged slowly onward.

Several of the men came out of the brush along the stream bank, watching the black water swirl and churn around the boulders that dotted the bank. "Quiet!" One of the men hissed, listening again for the sound that had brought them into the brush. At first, all they could hear was the sound of men and horses plunging through the brush behind them. Then they heard the faint cries, echoing among the tall trees lining the creek.

"Spread out!" Tavington yelled. "Keep your ears sharp!" Men and horses plunged up and down the banks of the creek, searching for the source of the sound that so made their blood run cold.

* * *

Margaret shivered. Her eyes were still covered, but she knew evening was fast approaching. One of the snakes had curled itself upon her chest and would occasionally coil and move, its dry skin slipping in soft folds across her chest. It had tried to ease beneath the top of her corset, but the garment had been too tight and the snake had given up, much to Margaret's relief. Margaret's mind was mostly shattered. No matter how she tried to get her mind focused, it was instantly sent fleeing when something in the boat moved. The thick coils of the copperhead by her calf had ceased moving and she hoped the snake was dead. She whimpered again as the snake near her shoulder tried to ease its way along her neck, moving up beneath the hood. She shuddered uncontrollably and screamed when she felt its tiny tongue flicker near her ear. She couldn't writhe. If she did, she knew the snake that was curled on her chest would slide down against her neck in a sick parody of a necklace. She wouldn't allow that. Couldn't accept that.

_Think_!

Instead she screamed. She'd long since quit caring that her throat was sore with the effort and prolonged cries. Even her neck hurt, the muscles of her neck tightly corded as she strained against the ropes that bound her and tried futilely to get away from the serpents that slithered beside and atop her. She hoped someone might hear her and send help. She hoped her cries would scare a few of the snakes away, but that was not to be the case. She'd learned that rearing up or moving her head was a bad idea since it pulled against the gag in her mouth. Blood was a fresh taste across her dry tongue. So now, in the failing light, she lay as utterly still as she could, the boat rocking gently in the current that buffeted around her. The tongue flickered against her ear again and she sobbed. She was exhausted...there was nothing left; her strength was sapped. Unable to move if she wanted to, unable to cry out, unable put a plan in to action if she could even come up with one. The helplessness crashed over her like a blanket and she froze, her sensory blindness contributing to the effects. Blackness overtook her and she was lulled to sleep by the sound of the water cascading over nearby rocks and the snake's soft hissing in her ear.

"Sir!" The dragoons followed the shout of their comrade and looked to the middle of the creek where a boat had run aground against a boulder that jutted above the swift moving current.

"What is it?" Tavington asked, coming to the edge of the creek. "We're not looking for boats, we're looking for a woman."

"There's someone in the boat sir…" The man swallowed when Tavington glared at him. "I can see hands above the gunnel."

Voices began to puncture Margaret's foggy perception. She had to focus, to listen beyond the sound of the water that passed so close to her ear, the white noise that had obliterated most everything else since her ordeal had begun.

_Rescue!_

Margaret moaned, shaking her head, for once ignoring the snake that curled along her neck. She tried to shout a warning, in spite of the gag in her mouth. But she could produce no sound...weakly she began to kick at the side of the boat, stomping her foot, not caring how many times she kicked the bag containing the copperhead in the process. She just wanted whoever was out there to know she was in the boat and that she was alive.

The men on the shore watched the boat rock and heard a rhythmic thumping carry across the water.

"O'Dell! Hooker! Get out there and retrieve that boat!" The Colonel shouted.

Hooker's horse plodded out towards the boat but backed violently a few feet away. "What the...?" O'Dell was next to come close. A muted curse followed as the two men eased their mounts away from the boat.

The horses reared back and sent sprays of water dropping lightly into the boat. The snakes flinched out of the way, their balance and perches upset in the rocking of the boat. The snake that had curled near Margaret's ear bunched and its tongue tickled her ear again. God it had to stop!

James Wilkins' heart dropped to his feet, his stomach felt leaden and cold.

_What have they done to her? What is in that boat?_

A weak, if piercing scream immediately silenced his thoughts. It sounded dry, empty. The sound whispered and rattled like corn stalks waving together after the harvest. The boat rocked as if it had been buffeted by something…or its occupant was tossing violently.

"Snakes!" O'Dell shook his head as he looked down at Colonel Tavington.

"Snakes?" Tavington echoed, not understanding.

"Aye Sir. The bastards have her trussed up inside the boat with serpents..." O'Dell shuddered in disgust. Hooker was already dismounting. "They're all over her...maybe a dozen snakes in there with her?"

"The water isn't deep sir. I can wade out there and retrieve the boat." Hooker said removing his jacket and rolling his sleeves up. "They appeared to be a few garter snakes..nothing more."

"A few garter snakes?!" O'Dell glared at Hooker who looked calm. "Snakes is snakes, man! Doesn't matter what type they may be..."

"Garter snakes won't do much harm..." Hooker tossed back. "Not to those that don't believe in silly Irish superstitions." O'Dell blustered atop his mount as Wilkins and Borden also removed their coats and began rolling up their sleeves. Hooker was already half way to the boat when he leapt back, almost losing his footing on the slick rocks on the creek bed.

"What is it?" Tavington shouted.

"Just a tow rope sir. Startled me, is all." Some of the men still on the bank snickered, but fell silent when James stared at them. Hooker grasped the tow line and hauled the boat from rock with a loud scrape. The bow of the boat turned slowly as the man hauled the line in towards himself. The boat rocked as it came across the current, its stern knocking against the rock that it had just come free of. O'Dell came and took the rope from Hooker, using his horse to help pull the boat from the rock and across the current.

"Everyone get back to the road." Tavington ordered tersely. "We'll ride back this evening. Fetch out any extra clothing you may have...soap...food. And for God's sake someone hand me a canteen." The men moved quickly back into the protection of the trees to retrieve the items from the horses they'd left at the road and to inform the rest of the unit on what had transpired.

Margaret had been found, but none of them had seen her. None of them knew what condition she might be in or what the rebels had done to her. Judging by the screaming they had heard, they were certain it wasn't good.

* * *

_Odd bit of trivia, the bulk of this chapter was actually where I started writing. This and Margaret waking up in the rebel camp was the original first chapter. It was started two years ago while I was at work being traumatized by my co-workers with the newest 'creature' acquisition, which happened to be a baby king snake. I can't believe it's taken this long to flesh this out and get it turned into a story._


	12. Born Away

"It's alright, Miss Margaret. It's alright now. Shh..." Hooker soothed as the boat eased into his reach. Margaret sobbed and twitched as the snakes writhed agitatedly against her skin, as upset at being disturbed from their warm rest as Margaret was relieved to finally be rescued. She flinched as she felt the once-still coils of the copper head shift against her calf. She whimpered, her hands shaking. "Calm now...just let us..." Hooker stopped talking as he realized she truly wasn't paying much attention to him. She was as calm as she was going to get under the circumstances.

Borden was the first to reach the other side of the boat. He flinched at first and then reached in and began removing the snakes from beside Margaret, tossing them carelessly over his shoulder and into the water. He looked at the huge black pilot snake that was coiled around her arm, its tongue darting out at him.

"Jesus…!" He carefully pried it from where it had coiled itself around her arm and heard her whimper. "Just garter snakes Hooker? How'd you miss this?"

"Sorry sir." The man reached in and pulled another garter snake from the boat. "I guess I wasn't paying very close attention."

"I should say not." Borden regretted his harsh words as Margaret tensed and struggled, jostling the snake. "Hold still, Miss St. Claire. It's just a pilot snake." She shuddered a few times, but stopped pulling against the binds in the boat. The pilot snake tried to slither from Borden's grasp, but he kept a tight hold behind the head and then gripped it lower across the body and pulled the snake away from Margaret's arm. She'd been bitten several times that he could see. Blood had trickled down her arm and across her shoulder, open fang marks clearly visible through the dirt on her body. Hooker reached across the boat, attempting to root out a snake that was trying to scrabble away from them and inadvertently elbowed Margaret's wrist. She screamed in agony. The boat rocked to a halt at the side of the stream and Wilkins and Tavington helped haul it up onto the bank.

"Good God…" Wilkins breathed, having watched the number of snakes Hooker and Borden had tossed from the boat he was shocked to see the state she was in, and that there were still more snakes wriggling in the boat beside her. Margaret shuddered and tried to twist away from the snake still by her ear. It hissed angrily at being disturbed and moved itself deeper into her hood. Margaret sobbed harder, straining away from the serpent that hissed softly in her ear.

"I think we got them all." Margaret heard one of her rescuers say after they'd extricated the snakes from her petticoats and ankles. Margaret knew better though, there was still the copperhead, which had gone still, but also the one in the hood. She shook her head violently, still pulling against the ropes binding her wrists.

"She shook her head…there must be more, but I can't see….." They watched as the muscles in her neck strained as she turned her head farther shrieking her only means to communicate her distress. The dirty blonde and copper strands parted across her shoulder, the hood coming up just enough for Hooker to see the tail of the snake that had curled itself in a nest of hair.

"Cut her loose!" Tavington demanded. "We'll find it soon enough." She pulled against the binds on her wrists in spite of the pain that lanced down her arms...fighting still for freedom now that most of the snakes had been removed, a fresh surge of adrenaline coursed through her body in her desperation for freedom.

"I see one more..." Hooker grasped the snake, but felt it tug back against him. Fear made the snake react and it sank tiny fangs into the flesh of her neck, just beneath her ear. Margaret howled again, sobbing in pain and terror as the tiny snake struggled to remain in its hiding place. Her chest heaved with sobs even as Hooker kept his hold on the snake's tail and gently pried the fangs from Margaret' neck, throwing the snake inland once he had it free of her. Wilkins and Borden had begun to saw at the ropes binding Margaret to the craft. Once she was cut free, Wilkins dropped the knife and grasped her beneath her shoulders, pulling her into a seated position against the side of the small craft. Her head lolled, and she moaned even as the bag that had been at her feet hissed and seethed.

"More snakes." Margaret whimpered, trying to shake her head. But her body had quit responding to anything she asked of it. James quickly pulled the hood from her head and gasped.

"Colonel...?" Tavington knelt on the opposite side of the boat and turned Margaret's face so he could see the full damage inflicted. Margaret flinched slightly at the touch to her chin, but allowed the hand to guide her stiff neck into motion.

The word "spy" had been scrawled in blood across the dirty rag that blindfolded her. Streaks of blood had smeared down her face and been spread by her tears. He could see where the gag in her mouth had cut her lip, dried spittle and blood crackling across her chin. Wilkins worked quickly at the knot behind her head, easing the blindfold off. She blinked in the light, suddenly bright after having been completely in the dark, even if it was evening light. So strained were her eyes by the setting sun she flinched away from Tavington's hand, keeping her eyes cast down. He grasped her chin gently in his hand and forced her to look at him.

He winced when he saw the extent of the abuse she'd taken. Her face was a mottled mess, bruises of varying shades marked her skin and her eyes were red. Her right eye was swollen and a cut near her eyebrow that had scabbed over had re-opened when the blindfold had been removed. The skin beneath her left eye was starting to turn a hideous jaundiced yellow and dark purple and a wicked looking cut lanced from her temple down across her cheek. Someone had worked her over, and taken pleasure in it.

The knot for the gag proved harder to untie and Wilkins struggled with it. Margaret winced as he inadvertently pulled on the gag trying to untie the knot. Tavington drew his own knife and leaned forward to cut the binding but Margaret flinched away, seeing the light glint on the metal, not quite understanding his intent.

"Calm down girl...I'm going to cut the binding loose..." Margaret blinked and shivered as the metal slid along her cheek and tugged against the gag. The fabric split easily, as tight as the bond had been. Colonel Tavington touched her jaw lightly, whispering "open." She'd spent most of the day with the gag clamped between her teeth, she wasn't sure she could relax her jaw. Slowly, her muscles relaxed and the Colonel was able to slide the gag away from her broken mouth. She closed her jaw slowly, licking softly at the split skin across her lips.

Hooker leapt to his horse and pulled a canteen from his saddle bags. "Water..." Wilkins took the proffered canteen and braced Margaret's head against his shoulder before holding the canteen to her lips. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Even though Captain Wilkins poured slowly, the water sloshed across the muscle, most of it spilling across her chin and down her chest. She sputtered for a moment until she was able to get her mouth thoroughly saturated and her tongue working properly. She drank slowly, wincing as she swallowed. She had only taken a few sips when her throat seized, a horrible rasping cough wracking her chest and causing her whole body to spasm. James pulled the canteen away and waited for the fit to pass. Margaret's wrists were still bound together, and Borden reached for them. Her hands were swollen and a pale color that none of the men could describe. Borden slid the blade between the coils of rope and sawed at the knot. He quickly unwound the rope from her wrists and pulled back, throwing the rope far into the stream beside him. Her wrists were chafed and oozing pus and blood from numerous places, scabs spread across the backs of her wrists. Her right wrist was certainly worst off, black and swollen, the dragoons could tell that someone had attempted, and probably succeeded, to crush it. Her little finger dipped at an odd angle, revealing where it wasn't seated in the socket as it ought to have been. She drew her hands slowly away from Borden, never once looking up at him, not looking at any of them, keeping her eyes focused on her dirty petticoats. The bag thumped at the other side of the boat, twisting angrily, now that it was cold. Borden made to reach for it, but Margaret stopped him.

"Copperhead." The word squeaked out over her torn vocal chords. "Don't..." She broke down in a fit of coughing, unable to sustain conversation and she slumped forward over her knees as she pulled them up, trying to contain what little warmth she still had, trying to protect herself. She shivered violently in the chill air by the creek. Tavington looked at the gag where he'd dropped it at his feet and noticed the material wound around the stick had come undone. Picking it up and fully unwinding it, he revealed the words "Don't Tread on me!" written across it. He tossed the offending scrap down into the muck even as Borden glanced at it and caught the phrase.

"That would explain the snakes..." He muttered.

"Barbarians" the colonel hissed.

James wrapped his arms around Margaret and lifted her from the boat, her feet dragging as he pulled her from the vessel that still contained the copperhead. He set her down and turned back to watch Colonel Tavington stab his knife into the writhing sack. An angry hiss filled the air as Tavington pulled the blade back and stabbed again, just for good measure. Borden picked up the sack and tossed it to the middle of the creek. Blood was seeping down Margaret's neck from the last wound she'd received. James watched as her fingers flinched uselessly in her lap, trying to raise her arms up but incapable of doing so.

"It'll take us far too long to return to Middleton Place." Colonel Tavington spat as he watched Margaret shiver, her skin turning paler in the evening light. "Fort Carolina is closer by a great deal."

"Yes sir. Where we entered the road way it was perhaps an hour's hard ride to Fort Carolina." Borden responded. Wilkins only half listened to his commanding officers as he tipped the canteen to Margaret's lips again.

"We'll take her there. With any hope, there will be a surgeon worth his salt in attendance." Tavington stomped into the underbrush, not waiting for a response. Margaret shivered again, her breath coming too fast and too shallowly. She reminded James of a rabbit, trapped against a wall.

"Will she survive the ride?" Borden asked, shrugging back into his coat, watching the woman shiver in James' arms.

"Doesn't look like it." Hooker muttered, donning his own coat. Margaret coughed again, the same wracking, rough sound that she'd emitted before. She managed to pull her knees towards her chest and managed to lean forward, moaning as muscles that had been ill or little used stretched. Slowly she rocked her head to the side and glared up at the other two men, a single weepy tear tracking from her swollen eye.

"I will survive. Just to prove..." The breathy harshness of her answer ended on a broken squeak as her voice gave out on the words "you wrong." WIlkins could have smiled. His fears had been unfounded. She wasn't broken, she was only hurting...withdrawn, but resilient.

"Can you walk?" Margaret shivered, but didn't answer him right away. She took several shuddering breaths and then shook her head.

"No." She said the word into her skirts as she was still huddled into her knees. He didn't doubt that her ordeal had sapped most of her strength. A crashing sound from the bushes alerted them all to one of the men returning. Margaret grew tense and her breath came faster, if that were possible. The man emerged a ways upstream and walked towards them.

"We managed to come up with a shirt and some socks..." He glanced down at where Margaret shivered. "They worked her over, didn't they." He stared as he handed over the bundle of clothing, a small slice of soap resting on top of it.

"I'll leave the canteen." Hooker moved his horse into the dark of the bushes and away from the men at the creek side. The man who brought back the items followed, leaving Borden and Wilkins with Margaret.

"Let's at least get her face cleaned up." Borden dipped his hand into the shallow water beside the boat and shivered. "It's cold though..." James reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He soaked the material and then knelt in front of Margaret. Slowly he tipped her head back and supported it as he washed as much of the blood, spit and dirt from her face. Her eyes closed tightly as he dragged the soaped cloth over her cuts and scratches. In the shadowed light it was hard to tell what was dirt and what was bruise. The cut on her cheek continued to bleed.

"Here." He folded the kerchief and laid the damp material against her neck, where the snake bite was beginning to swell. "Hopefully this will help keep the swelling down."

Her eyes, centered on him and she brought one side of her mouth up in a small smile that turned into a wince. Borden had picked up the shirt and shook out its thin folds. Margaret groaned as she tried to reach for it, managing to move her arm only a few short inches, before it fell uselessly to her side. Borden pulled the material over her head, reaching up and moving one arm through the sleeve as James struggled with the other, trying to avoid hurting her already injured hand.

"God, her fingers are like ice..." Borden muttered, as he drew her arm through the sleeve. She gasped as cold air rushed around her, the warmth she'd managed to capture slipping away as the two men wrestled her into the blouse. Embarrassment threatened to color her cheeks, but a certain sense of detachment slowly settled over her and the embarrassment ebbed away. She'd been through too much in the last three days to allow a little thing like men dressing her to weigh her down with embarrassment.

A darkness deeper than that of twilight threatened to come up and overwhelm her. She shuddered and felt herself begin to slide away. Reflexively she clenched her fingers, grasping at anything she could to stay where she was; desperately trying to keep the darkness at bay.

"Margaret?" Her name seemed to be shouted from far away and she had a hard time focusing on where the noise had come from.

"Margaret, look at me!" James felt her fingers clench on his arm weakly and saw a dullness descend over her eyes; her skin had taken on a doughy glow in the twilight and she shuddered violently where she sat.

"Get her up..." Borden admonished, as he rubbed at her shoulders, trying to warm her. "I don't know what a surgeon can do for her, but she should probably see one sooner rather than later."

James grasped the pair of wool socks and shoved them onto her feet. "My jacket...quickly!" Borden grasped the scarlet wool coat and handed it to Wilkins, who wrapped it around Margaret's shivering body, even as she fell back in a faint. Tucking it around her, he swiftly lifted her up and carried her back through the dense forest towards the roadway. Borden walked ahead of him, holding branches up and out of the way to ease his path. James felt Margaret shudder violently in his arms every few moments. Her teeth chattered just as violently and James tried to bundle her closer to him in an effort to keep her warm. The two men came out to the roadway below where their horses were. The rest of the dragoons prepared to mount as Tavington turned his horse in the road, staring at where James lay Margaret for a moment.

"How is she?" He snapped. James looked up at the Colonel but shook his head.

"Not well sir. She fainted before we left the creek side. She hasn't roused since then." Colonel Tavington and Captain Wilkins looked down on the woman who had become an important part of all their lives; she looked as if she were dead. Both Margaret's eyes were sunken in dark circles, even as the right one was swollen and had taken on a strange mottled yellow hue. The scratches and bruises on her face stood out as dark welts against skin that had turned alabaster and gray with shock. Her lips were colorless, bordering on blue. The only sign that she still lived was the violent shivering.

"We have to hurry." James said, retrieving his horse and preparing to mount. "She needs more help than we can give her at the side of the road, sir."

"Agreed. To horse!" Tavington shouted, galvanizing the men into action. James mounted his horse and waited for Borden to lift Margaret up to him. Together, they managed to maneuver Margaret into position in front of him. With his arms wrapped around her, James nodded to the Colonel who gave the order to ride on.

James cradled her head against his shoulder, his arms wound tightly about her shuddering frame. Edwards rode close and took his own coat off, handing it to James to wrap around Margaret's legs.

He nodded his thanks at the younger man and then got the coat tucked around her and pulled her close. Edwards nodded and then kneed his horse forward, following the others into a walk and then into a canter. Soon the men of the dragoons were racing in a swift gallop up the roadways and cutting across fields of cotton, taking the shortest path towards Fort Carolina. When they slowed to rest the horses, Colonel Tavington rode back towards Captain Wilkins. Margaret's head slumped forward and nodded with every step the big cavalry horse took. She looked like a life sized rag doll.

"Has she roused?"

"No sir." James eased Margaret's head back against his shoulder and looked down at her. He could feel her pulse beating weakly beneath his fingertips. She was so cold, so pale. Her hair was a tangled mess caught up beneath the collar of his coat. She shivered in his arms even as he pulled the collar up close beneath her ear. "She's no worse, but she's no better either."

Tavington nodded and glanced to the horizon where he could see the lights on the palisade winking softly in the night. "How fares your horse?"

"Sir?"

"You've been riding double. And we've pushed them hard all day. " The Colonel spoke slowly, as if to a small child. "How is your horse?"

"Tired as well, sir." Wilkins admitted.

"Pass her to me." Wilkins glanced at his commanding officer, hesitant to relinquish his hold on Margaret. "Come now Captain." Wilkins conceded even as his horse's gait seemed to falter. He pulled his horse to a stop and watched as the Colonel did the same. Tavington reached across the space between his horse and Captain Wilkins' and pulled Margaret into his own lap. "Bring up the men. We know the rebels are in the area. Warn the other units in the outlying camps to be on the watch. "

"Yes Sir." Wilkins watched as Tavington hitched Margaret closer to him and kneed his horse. The great black stallion surged forward and Wilkins was forced to watch as another man bore Margaret away from him.


	13. Coming To

Colonel Tavington pushed his horse as fast as he could. Margaret's head lolled forwards and back as he raced his horse up the hill and across the fields below what had been Skye Point plantation. He raced up the hill and bellowed at the gate guards to let him in. Tavington pulled his horse up short in front of the house and slid from the back of his horse, taking Margaret up in his arms and hitching her close as he strode to the front door. A Sergeant stepped forward and saluted clumsily as Tavington neared the door.

"Open that door and then make off and fetch back the surgeon. Now!" The man jumped at the ice in Tavington's eyes and the bite in his voice. The sergeant pushed open the front door and then raced down the steps to fetch back the surgeon. Tavington hesitated in the doorway for a moment and then carried Margaret towards the drawing room, not knowing where else to take her. At the late hour, there was no one present and he glanced around the room, looking for a likely place to lay Margaret. There were no fainting couches in the room. Everything that may have served to lay her upon had been stripped away, the better to make use of the space as an office area for clerks and aides to deal with the business of running a fort and a branch of the army. His eye settled on a table, covered in documents and maps and the other detritus of administrative command. With a sigh he carried Margaret to the narrow table—something that in kinder times might have been a sideboard—and swept the documents from it in the process of laying her upon it. The table was almost too narrow, her shoulders barely fit across the span, and it was certainly too short as her feet dangled over the end, but it was the best option in the room. Her arm dangled from the side of the table and when he reached out to pull it over her abdomen, he found out just how cold she was. Tavington stared down at the woman on the table and realized that everything he'd worked towards the past few months was for naught.

He'd worked hard to distance himself from her. He'd grown feelings for her after she began spying for them, feelings that he'd come to acknowledge when she'd been in danger the fall before. Twice in the span of a single day she'd found herself in a bad situation, and twice he'd been the one to come to her rescue. He'd done his best after that to avoid her, which had been relatively easy during the winter months. But then last week he'd found his eye constantly drawn to her at the ball. While other women were wearing gowns that resembled confections of sugar and air, she'd been wearing jewel tones. He'd decided that evening that she deserved the finer things life had to offer.

And for some reason, he wanted to be the one to give them to her.

But she was infatuated with James Wilkins. Or maybe it was just that James Wilkins showered her with the attention that he had worked so hard NOT to give her.

He brushed at the tangled hair that had swirled across her face, obscuring the worst of the damage. He grimaced at the extent of the harm that had been inflicted on her. Someone had hated her to do this. The rebels had known who she was last fall on the road side and had targeted her then. He'd been too blind to see it. He'd thrust her in to dangerous spot after dangerous spot and hadn't taken the time to think that the rebels were spying on the dragoons just as much as the dragoons were spying on them.

The door of the parlor slammed open and the surgeon came blustering in.

"Colonel Tavington! What in God's name is going on?" The man stomped towards the Colonel and stopped abruptly when he saw Margaret lying on the table top behind him. "What….Is that the Widow Thomas?"

"Yes." Tavington cleared his throat and answered again. "Yes. She was abducted by rebels. She's injured…." The surgeon came forward and looked at Margaret, taking in the injuries he could. He shook his head and glanced up at Tavington.

"She's been beaten, no doubt about that…but these?" He brushed at the hair clinging to her neck and shoulders and pulled the blouse back to reveal the snakebites along her collar bone. "What happened here?"

"The rebels returned her to us in a boat filled with snakes." Tavington stated as blandly as he could. Anger pulsed within him, threatening to overwhelm him. "Rather barbaric actually…" The doctor pulled his hand away from the wounds, many of which were bruising violent shades of purple.

"Venomous?"

"According to some of the local men, no. None of the snakes pulled from the craft were venomous, with the exception of the copperhead."

"Copperhead?" The doctor had taken up Margaret's hands in an effort to evaluate the injury to her wrist but he dropped it when he heard the name of the vicious snake. "Was she bitten by it?"

"I don't think so." The doctor glanced over Margaret and shook his head.

"I'll need help. I'm not well versed in these sorts of injuries."

"What?" Tavington snarled. The man was a doctor…how was he not versed in the injuries Margaret had sustained?

"Bullet holes and shrapnel, certainly. Falls and breaks sustained in the line of duty….but snake bites?" The man shook his head. "I have no experience with this sort of thing. But there's a Gullah woman who's living down in the cabins….she'd know." The man shouted for his assistant to fetch the woman from the cabins and bring her to the plantation house. Then he glanced at where Margaret lay. "We'll take her upstairs. The attic rooms were made ready for the aids. We'll just commandeer one for her and hope for the best."

"Aides?" Tavington hoisted Margaret in his arms, her head lolling back. He thought for a moment how much it was like lifting a dead body but immediately banished the thought. "What aides?"

"Did you not hear? General Lord Cornwallis is moving headquarters from Middleton to Fort Carolina." Tavington swore under his breath and followed the doctor as the man grabbed a lamp and led the way upstairs.

"I had not heard. We returned from a foray into the countryside only yester-eve. We found out she'd been abducted this morning and turned out immediately to search for her. I hadn't reported to command yet."

"The Lord General decided to take a more forward position in the fight against the rebels. Felt that being in the luxury of Middleton Place was making him soft and impeding the speed with which he could issue commands."

"And when does his lordship arrive?" Tavington turned to go up the next flight of stairs, careful to maneuver Margaret carefully around the narrow corner so she'd incur no more damage. He felt guilty enough at her being abducted, he'd put her in the position to be noticed by the rebels, he'd left her behind at Middleton and given them the opportunity to abduct her. He wasn't sure if he could handle knowing that he'd injured her further by knocking her head against a wall or banister.

"Within the week I should think. The Lord General's Aides-de-camp have been moving papers and his personal effects over the last few days." The surgeon continued up into the attic and led Colonel Tavington into a small room that contained a low bed a few chests of drawers and various other pieces of extra furniture. The doctor pulled back the thin blanket and allowed Tavington to place Margaret upon it. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the surgeon's aide rushed in with a woman whose skin was as dark as mahogany.

"Called from me bed at 'dis late hour….what's de trouble?" The woman's voice was heavy with the accents of the Caribbean islands.

"I need your help, Constance." The surgeon said. He waved a hand at Margaret. "She's been bitten by snakes, she's unconscious. I haven't the skills to help her."

"What kind of serpent?" The woman came forward, gripping her shawl tight around her as she glanced down at Margaret.

"Small ones." Tavington answered. "My men tell me they were Garter snakes and ….Pilot snakes?"

"How'd she come into contact wid bot'?" The woman knelt beside Margaret and looked at the snake bites. "How MANY did she come in contact wid'?"

"She was trussed up inside a boat with a dozen snakes. There was a copperhead bound in a bag at her feet…" The woman touched Margaret's face, assessing for fever.

"What will you need Constance?" The surgeon asked. "Can you help her?"

"I can help. But I'll need space…and water to start wid." The surgeon grasped Tavington's coat and pulled him from the room.

"We'll care for her sir, no worries on that." Tavington watched as the man dispatched his aides to fetch up blankets, water and more candles. Feeling too large in the cramped hallway, Tavington exited the house, gaining a promise from the surgeon to be notified if anything should change.

* * *

Margaret struggled to pull herself from the darkness. She felt suffocated in it, as if she'd never get out. She wanted to scream, but could produce no sound. She wanted to claw or scratch or move, but everything hurt. Finally she was able to open her eyes, gasping as she finally came into awareness. The room she found herself in was dark except for two candles burning above a small mantle. She tried to roll over, but her shoulders still ached and the movement caused pain. She was sweating, her legs were weighted down by several blankets and something warm lay near her calf. She couldn't even muster the strength to push the blankets off her. A match struck and another candle was lit. The face of a woman eased from the darkness and stared down at Margaret.

"Good. You're awake." Margaret's eyes flicked from the woman to the darkness beyond. Where was she? How did she get here? The last thing she remembered….suddenly she found it hard to put anything together at all. "How are you feeling?"

"Hot." The word squeaked out unintelligibly. Margaret tried to clear her throat, but could produce no sound. She flopped her head back against the pillow. "Where am I?"

"Fort Carolina." Constance leaned over Margaret and touched her forehead. "'Dat dragoon Colonel brought you here. Said you was attacked by rebels…"

Suddenly Margaret remembered being attacked in the woods, being held captive and sentenced to be punished…punishment that involved snakes. She shuddered in spite of the warmth of the blankets laying over her.

"You was cold as ice when dey brought you here." Constance said. "Now you be burning like a fire. Let's pull some of dese blankets off you..." Constance pulled the top two blankets off Margaret and then reached under to remove the two warming bricks that were nestled against her legs. Margaret flinched as the sheets settled against her legs; she kicked involuntarily as the fabric of the bed sheet curled against her leg. She told herself it was nothing…just a sheet and not a snake. "How be 'dat?"

"Better." Margaret mouthed. Constance reached for a cup that had water with a little bit of wine mixed with it. She helped Margaret sit up and made the girl drink slowly. Margaret savored the sweet flavor as it flowed into her stomach, warming it. Hunger suddenly took her and her stomach growled loudly, rebelling at the wine hitting it. Constance took the cup away.

"When was de last time you eat?" Margaret thought back to the rancid piece of salt pork she had nibbled on at the Rebel camp.

_When had that been?_

She shook her head. She didn't know when the last time she'd eaten had been. The last decent meal she'd eaten had been in camp before the rebels had taken her, and even that had been a cold, light meal. "I'll have someone fetch up some bread and cheese. Will dat do?" Margaret nodded her head. She'd have eaten the draperies if they had been offered to her. Constance left the room, taking one of the candles with her. Margaret lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the men on watch outside and to the house settling. She drifted in and out of sleep, trying hard to stay awake. Constance returned a short while later with a partial loaf of bread and some soft cheese. She set the plate aside and pulled Margaret into a seated position again. Margaret felt as if her head weighed a hundred pounds and she stared down weakly at the plate that Constance settled in her lap. She could barely lift the food to her mouth, the motion hurt so badly. Chewing also proved difficult, her jaw ached every time she moved it.

"Are you in any pain?" Constance asked. Margaret nodded slowly. She set the food down in her lap and leaned back against the pillows, already sapped of strength. "Rest up." Constance took the food from Margaret's lap and pulled the blankets up to the younger girl's chin. Margaret stared at the older woman in the faint light. Slowly, the blackness crept in and even though she hadn't been awake long, Margaret went back to sleep.

The next time she awoke, sunlight streamed into the attic and the thin curtains danced on the breeze that swept through them. Margaret slowly pushed at the blankets that covered her and eased herself up. She was limited, her right hand hurt too much to move or to push with. She eventually struggled to a seated position, but she felt drained, sapped of what little strength she'd regained. She felt dizzy for the first few minutes that she sat up, and she clung to the bed sheets with her left hand. Eventually the spinning subsided and she was able to look around the small room.

_How did I get here?_

A sound at the door had her turning too quickly and she touched the place where she thought her heart would fly from her chest it beat so fast. Constance came into the room and peaked at where Margaret was sitting.

"Oh, you're awake!"

Margaret took slow breaths, so terrified had she been. Slowly things from the night before came back to her. The dark skinned woman and what she'd been told. She'd been rescued by the dragoons, and they'd brought her to Fort Carolina.

_I'm safe here._

Other memories came flooding back: the weakness, the heat, the food. Margaret's stomach cramped and saliva instantly flooded her mouth. She wasn't sure if she were hungry or if she was nauseous. Margaret closed her eyes tightly until everything settled. Constance held a bowl of steaming soup, the scent dancing across the room to Margaret's starved senses.

"I t'ought you might like some broth. You seemed to have difficulty chewing last night." Constance sat down beside Margaret and a pitying look came over her face.

_I must look awful_...Constance fed Margaret the broth, as Margaret still found moving her arms agonizing. Halfway through the bowl Margaret had taken all she could handle and she fell back against the wall at the head of the bed. "More?"

Margaret tried to answer but only coughed. She would have fallen from the bed had Constance not gripped her shoulders and helped ease her back down against the pillows.

"You still have a fever." Constance said, touching her brow. "You need to rest more."

Margaret shook her head and struggled to sit up again. She wanted to get out of bed, she was tired of being confined; first the rebels, and now the blankets and the _weakness._ But there was nothing she could do and she slowly drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Colonel Tavington stood in the room as the surgeon outlined the plan for Margaret. "She was weakened by her ordeal. She's very tired, they starved her as far as we can tell." The surgeon said. "Her wrist is bruised, perhaps broken, but I won't know until I can talk to her."

"You haven't spoken with her?"

"She's been sleeping much of the time. When she is awake, she hasn't been able to speak."

"Not able to speak…?" Tavington was finding that hard to believe. The woman he knew had no shortage of words and was unafraid to use them as a weapon.

"How did you manage to find her?" The surgeon asked. "I'm assuming it wasn't dumb luck."

"The rebels hung her dress in a tree, it pointed in the direction she could be found, but her screams were what we truly used to find her."

"That's what I thought." The Surgeon said. "She screamed herself hoarse is all; she was terrified…I know I would be if I'd been bound up with a pack of snakes."

"May I see her?" Tavington asked in clipped tones. It had been two days since he'd left her in the care of the surgeon. All his time had been occupied with preparing for the Lord General's move to Fort Carolina.

"Of course." The surgeon nodded towards the big house. "She's in the same room. We moved some furniture about to make her more comfortable, but otherwise…."

Tavington turned on his heel and left the surgeon's office before the man was finished speaking. He stomped up the stairs and nearly ran over Constance who was removing a bundle of sheets from the room.

"Colonel!" The woman gathered the sheets closer to her chest and sighed. "You startled me."

Tavington brushed past the woman hardly sparing her a glance or slowing his stride. He opened the door slowly and saw that the bed was empty and stripped of its linens. Scanning the room, he saw that a settee had been moved to face the window. Margaret lay upon the couch, sleeping peacefully in the gentle breeze and soft sunshine that streamed through the open window. Her right arm was in a sling, her hand bound up with strips of linen. Her hair had been combed and plaited and her face had been washed of the grime that had clung to it when they'd found her.

She still looked a fright. The cut on her cheek had needed stitches and was tinged red and pink across skin that was far too pale. Both of her eyes were blackened, and the skin around her mouth was broken at the corners with an especially deep cut splitting her upper lip towards her nose and two more splitting her bottom lip. The bite mark on her neck was clearly visible as two puncture wounds ringed in shades of darkest purple and red. Tavington reached over the back of the couch and gently ran his fingers down the column of Margaret's neck, from the bite marks on her neck to the ones that were only just visible on her shoulder. Margaret tensed suddenly and sat up, a short shriek escaping her as she grasped at her neck with her good hand, her breathing rapid as she glanced around, finally setting her gaze on Tavington. She heaved a sigh as she lay back down, her hand over her chest as she tried to calm herself down.

"I didn't mean to startle you." Margaret's cool gaze settled on him and she nodded. "I came to ask how you were faring. "

Margaret shrugged and winced at the motion. "I've been better." She whispered. The Colonel moved a chair to sit by her side and gazed down at her. She coughed once and tried to clear her throat. She looked towards a nearby table where a pitcher of water sat. Colonel Tavington took the hint and filled a mug with water. He had to help her sit up to drink it and then eased her back against the cushion on the couch.

"Better?"

"The Surgeon said I shouldn't talk much."

"A blessing for all who've ever had the misfortune to catch the sharp side of your tongue." Margaret attempted to smile, but it turned into a grimace when the cuts around her mouth pulled painfully. Colonel Tavington looked away as she reached up slowly with her left hand and touched at the corner of her mouth, checking for blood.

"What happened out there Margaret?" Margaret's eyes darted to Colonel Tavington's icy blue ones. Never had he used her name before. Always it had been "Mistress Scout" or "Miss St. Claire". The use of her first name startled her, but his request was almost as shocking. Couldn't he see what had happened? She thought back to the rescue. It had all been a fog at the river side. Her mind so shattered she could barely string two thoughts together. But one thing she knew, Tavington had been at the riverside, had seen the snakes and the binds. What more did the man want to know?

"I need you to tell me." She shook her head. She wasn't sure she could relive the horror. Not yet. Not while she still felt so broken.

"I can't. I don't…" She coughed violently,she struggled to sit up, turning her head from Tavington lest he see her eyes water. Margaret swiped at the tears that threatened to fall. Tavington turned her chin so that he could look into her eyes. "I can't." She said again.

"You can and you must. I need to know what happened out there. I need to know what they did to you, what they said…."

"Isn't it obvious what they did?" She whispered.

"Parts of it, yes." Tavington's thumb stroked gently over her chin, close to the split in her lower lip. "We can assume they beat you…that much is obvious." Margaret averted her gaze and tried to pull away from him. "Don't pull away." She was forced to stare at him, his icy gaze boring into her. "You have to tell me. Everything. Please."

Margaret's tongue darted out to trace one of the cuts on her lower lip and she took a shuddering breath as she stared up at him.

"But why?" A single tear slid slowly down her cheek. "What good can it do?" Tavington looked down at his boots and then glanced up at her. "Why?"

"If we can prove their brutality, prove that they're the instigators in all this…"

"But they aren't…." Margaret coughed again and shook her head. "We know they aren't."

"Margaret, I need to know who took you and why." Tavington said in a low voice. "I want to help you. The only way I can do that is if you _tell me_ what happened." Margaret was silent for a long moment. She stared at Tavington for the longest time before she slowly nodded her head.

"Fine. I'll tell you…where should I start?" She turned to face Tavington, placing her feet on the floor and arranging the blanket over her lap.

"What were you doing in the woods so far from the camp?"

"I was out collecting herbs." She cleared her throat and her voice grew stronger for a moment. "I've been venturing out to collect things for the surgery."

"And that's when they captured you?"

"Yes. One of them startled me in the woods….offered to lead me to a juniper plant." Margaret's eyes grew distant as she briefly described the struggle at the creek.

"We found your basket, and your knife." Tavington said. "So you don't know where they took you after the creek?"

"No." Margaret took another sip of water that Tavington offered. "No, I woke in the dark."

"And you didn't recognize anything later?"

"No." Margaret answered. "I didn't truly see anything until….until they…." She shuddered a moment as she thought to when they took the hood off and put her in the boat. She picked absently at the stitches of the blanket, thinking back on what had happened. Everything had moved so fast and yet the experience had seemed to drag on endlessly. Her breathing hitched and Colonel Tavington reached out to touch her knee, gently guiding her attention back to him.

"Until what, Margaret?"

"Until they….I fought them, I did…" She rasped, tears filling her eyes. "They had me tied up, and then they stripped my dress from me, and I fought them when they untied my hands, but he was so angry…and he threw me to the ground and he spit on me." Her voice was little more than a raspy squeak as she rambled on about her ordeal, the dam breaking now that she had started discussing it. Tavington was confused by much of it, the fragmented story coming in a rush, but he was unwilling to stop her now that she was talking. She took a shuddering breath and continued on. "And then they showed me the copperhead before they put it in the bag and then they gagged me. I didn't want it to happen, I didn't. I fought them, but they forced me to….." Tears streamed down her face as she continued to repeat herself, recounting things she'd already said moments before. Soon she broke down in huge wracking sobs. Tavington stood and slowly sat beside her on the small couch. He pushed the hair from her face, but she turned away from Tavington and continued to sob.

Tavington had never seen his scout in such a state. She'd faced death before, been brave enough to spy for the British army and had taken them through the swamps and dark places of South Carolina in the dead of night. He'd never seen her break down or heard such a level of fear color her voice. Slowly he draped his arm across her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

"Hush, woman." She turned her face towards him and let him hold her as she sobbed. "Quiet now…" He rested his chin on top of her head as she continued to sob into his coat. He felt her grasp his lapels and continue to sob. She pulled back suddenly, coughing horribly and gasping for breath. He reached for the mug of water he'd set on the floor beside the couch and held the water to her lips. He watched as her left hand shook violently as she tried to reach for the mug, to hold it on her own. Tavington pulled the mug away.

"Now now. That's enough. You're sure to choke if you had your way." She pulled away from him, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is there anything else?"

"They judged me." Margaret whispered, still not looking at him. "There was a man there….he was in shadow. I didn't see faces really….but I believe he was a Colonel."

Tavington froze. He had heard reports that the 'ghost' was a Colonel in the militia. "The Ghost?" Margaret swallowed and leaned back against the pillows, exhausted already. She nodded weakly.

"He said I was going to be punished for my crimes against them…."

"Did you recognize him? Did you recognize anything about him?" Tavington was grasping her arm tightly and he saw her wince. He immediately let go and stood, pacing the space between the couch and the window.

"I made the mistake of looking up once during the proceedings, it was a mistake I was not going to make twice." Margaret whispered.

"Clever." Tavington wasn't sure if he was talking about her or the rebels. Margaret felt light headed and she struggled to turn on the couch.

"I'm sorry, Colonel." Tavington turned and watched as she attempted to lie back down. Slowly, he approached the couch and helped her get comfortable against the hard cushions. " I'm so….I'm so…." She struggled not to yawn, another pained expression creasing her features.

"Relax, Miss St. Claire." He touched her cheek as her eyes grew heavy with fatigue. "I need you strong again." He watched as she slipped back into slumber, exhaustion written across her face. Her left hand slipped from the settee, her knuckles banging to the floor loudly. Tavington carefully raised her hand and placed it by her side before tucking the blanket up around her shoulders. He was just brushing hair from her sweat slickened forehead when Constance came back into the room. The other woman bustled towards the bed even as Tavington prepared to leave.

"You….Patience." The woman turned and glared at Tavington

"If ye be talkin' to me, my name is Constance."

"Whatever." Tavington spat as he moved towards the door. "She's feverish. See to it that she regains her strength quickly. I have a feeling the Lord General is going to wish to speak to her."

And before the woman could say anything, Tavington was gone from the room and heading for his horse to tell the Lord General of what he'd discovered from the woman scout.


	14. Confessions

Margaret took a deep breath and let Constance pull a brush through her hair.

"You ain't strong enough for 'dis." Constance chastised. "You shouldn't be talking to everybody and their second cousins."

"The Lord General needs…"

"No talkin'! Save up your voice for 'dat fancy pants Lord coming today." The fort had seen a flurry of activity in the past day, having received the announcement that the Lord General would be arriving this afternoon. Margaret had been told that she'd be taking tea with the man, since he wanted to hear first-hand her experience with the rebels. "Don't see why 'dat Colonel can't tell 'im." Margaret tried not to smile since it still hurt to do so.

She was recovering rather well she thought. Her voice had grown slightly stronger, and her left shoulder hurt less than it had the first night, but the bites still itched and burned, and she still struggled with fevers. And she was bone tired. Though she slept long hours, she was not rested, for sleep was plagued with visions of snakes and angry men. Often she woke in the night attempting to scream, but was unable to produce a sound. The terror stayed with her for hours and she found it difficult to return to sleep in the dark attic room, fearing something might jump from the dark corners to capture her again.

"At least you'll be dressed proper." Constance groused. They both glanced over at the chair where a new set of petticoats and bodice had been procured for her. Margaret felt slightly relieved that she would not have to meet the Lord General in a night shirt or borrowed man's blouse. But she was still uncomfortable talking about the ordeal. The night before she went over it in her head again, and in doing so had come to the conclusion that it was all her fault.

If she hadn't been so eager to please, she never would have gone in to the woods alone.

If she hadn't been so trusting, the rebels wouldn't have kidnapped her.

If she'd been more docile, she wouldn't have been struck so violently, nor would she have struggled against the bonds.

If she'd remained calm while in the boat, she wouldn't have screamed herself hoarse or aggravated the snakes into biting her.

And above all, if she hadn't been so quick to go with the dragoons that night last summer, she would be safe at home with her half brothers and sisters and her stepfather.

Margaret had muddled this over in her head again as Constance helped to dress her, and even more as one of General Lord Cornwallis' aides-de-camp escorted her down the narrow staircase to the set of suites reserved for the General's use. Colonel Tavington was in the hallway and stopped as he watched Margaret's slow progress up the hall.

"Miss St. Claire." Tavington bowed as Margaret drew near and he stepped forward to escort her into the room where she'd have tea with the Lord General. "Considering what you just went through, I'd think this like a walk in the park." Margaret grimaced and waited for Colonel Tavington to escort her inside.

"Miss St. Claire, my lord." Tavington introduced her to the austere man standing at the windows. As the man came closer Colonel Tavington bowed slightly and Margaret took that as a cue to dip a curtsey.

Tavington felt her grip on his arm tighten as she tried to rise back to her feet. Sweat broke out across her brow as she waited for the Lord General's approval.

"Miss St. Claire, it is a pleasure to meet you, though I do wish it was under different circumstances."

"Thank You my lord."

"Come, you look exhausted." The Lord General gestured towards an area where several chairs had been pulled around a low table. "I've called for tea, but it's not yet here. I was hoping we might chat a while before it arrives."

"Of course." Tavington directed Margaret to sit in a rocking chair where both he and the Lord General could sit opposite her. He held the back of the chair to steady it as she lowered herself into the seat. She eased back gently and glanced up at the Colonel, nodding her thanks.

"Now, Miss St. Claire, the doctors Anders and Frasier have told me much about you. How very upset they were at your…ordeal. But they could not tell me much of it themselves." The Lord General settled his gaze on her. "They said you are invaluable to them, and to the men in the army. For that I thank you."

Margaret nodded in return, trying to save her voice for the narrative to come. The Lord General did not ask what she did in the army, nor did he ask how she came to be there. He launched directly into questioning her about the events revolving around her capture.

She had just recounted what had happened at the creek when tea arrived. The Lord General's aide poured out and Margaret had to lean forward to take the cup and saucer with her left hand. She marveled at how dainty and beautifully painted they were for a moment as she grasped the saucer in her hand. It rattled precariously a moment as she brought it back to her lap and managed to hold it against her knee with her right hand, allowing her to take a sip of the hot liquid.

Colonel Tavington watched her over the rim of his own tea cup. Her hand shook slightly, a movement that may not have been noticeable by someone who didn't know how extraordinarily steady she was. He watched her sip her tea and heard her voice strengthen as the heat of the brew soothed her tired voice.

"And what happened after they knocked you unconscious?" The Lord General pressed. "You did not recognize your surroundings."

"I was not shown my surroundings." Margaret answered. "They were very careful about what I saw." She told of being blindfolded for the entirety of her time and of the tribunal at the fire.

"A Frenchman you say?" Margaret nodded. Her voice had become reedy again and no amount of tea would ease the over use. "An ally? Or merely a ruffian of the swamps?"

"Hard to say, My Lord." Margaret answered. "The swamps are filled with the exiles of France. The Huguenot exodus ensured that."

"Miss St. Claire…..are you…French?" Lord Cornwallis picked up on her inflection of 'Huguenot' and 'France'.

"Her mother was French, my Lord." Tavington answered. "I have it on good authority that her mother raised her in proper English homes working as a governess teaching young ladies the language."

Margaret was surprised that Colonel Tavington knew so much of her past. How had he found out?

"I see. And this tribunal of ruffians sentenced you to…what exactly?" Margaret took a deep breath and spoke slowly, outlining what the rebels had done to her. She held fast to the china cup in her hands, she feared it slipping from her lap or losing grip with her weakened right hand, it shook so. She stopped frequently to take deep breaths and calm her nerves as the scenes played out over and over again in her mind.

"It's while they were taking my dress from me that I got a look at my surroundings." She whispered. "I saw a wall, and the ground was mostly level….covered in stones. I saw a desk and cabinets. Someone had all the fine trappings of an office."

"An office?" The Lord General's eyes darkened.

"Yes sir…"

"Do you remember aught else about what you saw? Something specific?"

"I saw a small chest on the table." Margaret closed her eyes, trying to remember something in detail. "A small cut crystal bowl lying on dark traveling chests."

"My things….they're using my things." The Lord General muttered.

"I'm sorry sir. That's all I can remember." In the end, she looked up from her tea cup to the Lord General and sighed. "The rest is fragmented. I don't know anymore than that."

Tavington took up the story, piecing together the fragments that Margaret could make no sense of. He told of how they found her, of the lack of tracks and how they had followed her screams as best they could. He told of the snakes in the boat with her, pausing only slightly as the teacup rattled violently against the saucer when Margaret shuddered. He told of the word 'spy' being scrawled on the dirty rag, a detail Margaret had not known and also of the rag on the gag baring the words "Don't tread on me." Margaret's chest felt tight as she listened to the parts of the story she had no knowledge of. She tried to slow her breathing by taking deep breaths through her nose and slowly releasing them. She turned her head to the side and listened as Tavington outlined the many bites she had sustained and some of the injuries the doctor had discussed with him. Margaret didn't want to listen anymore. She was tired, had felt tired since entering the room. Re-telling the story for the Lord General's benefit had been exhausting. The back of her throat felt uncomfortably warm and ached after having spent so much time talking. She focused on the Lord General and his line of questioning to the Colonel, asking how he knew it was the ghost, what he planned to do about the situation. Try as she might, she could not fight the blackness that threatened at the edge of her vision. Her eyelids felt heavy and her head pounded horribly.

_Sleep._

Her body demanded it; craved it like it craved air. She fought it, her head snapping up once as it drooped down with her fatigue. But soon even that was a demand she hadn't the strength to fight and she fell asleep, her head against the back of the rocking chair.

Colonel Tavington had watched Margaret's head nod with her weariness and when her eyes finally closed he stood, leaning over her to remove the teacup from her lap before it shattered on the floor. As he placed the fine china aside, the Lord General rose and motioned for him to follow to a window at the opposite side of the room.

"That young woman has been through much at the hands of the rebels." The Lord General sighed. "This is why civilians should not be involved in warfare."

"Yes sir."

"Why is she with your unit, Colonel Tavington? It is most unseemly for a woman of obvious breeding to be following so closely a unit of men in the army."

"She volunteered, sir." Tavington responded. He glanced out the window, watching the men below march and drill, striving for perfection and precision beneath the eyes of their Lord Commander. "Her knowledge of the area has proven invaluable. Her knowledge of the local flora has proven invaluable not only to my own men in foraging, but to the surgeons as well."

"This does not make me happy, Colonel." The Lord General huffed and glanced towards the hearth where Margaret dozed in the rocker. "To see the brutal lengths to which these…._savages_ will go…."

The Colonel waited for the Lord General to continue, but the older man remained quiet, contemplating what had occurred to Margaret and how best to solve the problem.

"If I may say so sir…"

"You may not." The Lord General's hard eyes focused on Tavington. "I believe the rebels brutalized that young woman based on your brutal tactics." Colonel Tavington glared at the Lord General. "You think I have not heard about your use of that woman? I had hoped it merely rumor, but now I'm not so sure."

"I have no idea of what you speak…."

"Damn me if you don't." Tavington fought the urge to step away from the Lord General, his wrath coming in waves. "You know full and well of what I speak. They wrote 'spy' on that blindfold because she was a spy…wasn't she?" Tavington refused to answer. "She was….and at your command."

"She volunteered information that those…._traitors_ bandied about in public places." Tavington responded angrily. "It is not spying to report seditious information to the army when it is made public knowledge."

"And she came to these public places how, Colonel?" The Lord General sneered at the Colonel. "Do you expect me to believe that by sheer dumb luck she managed to thwart how many recruitment campaigns? You put the deaths of how many men on her head?" The Lord General hissed his questions, intentionally keeping his voice low to prevent the sleeping woman from rousing. Colonel Tavington kept eye contact with the Lord General in spite of the accusations thrown at him. He had already placed blame on himself. What had happened to Margaret _was_ his fault. He should have taken her with the dragoons in chasing down the rebels from Middleton Place. He should have protected her better on the roadway and at the inn. He should have had her trained in spying techniques or made sure she was less obvious when she went into the inns, or maybe sent a man with her.

He never should have taken her from her family.

_Should haves _were useless. He could change none of that. It was in the past and he had learned long ago that there was no use dwelling on it. There was only striving forward.

"Once again Colonel, I'm left cleaning up YOUR mess."

"My mess…" Colonel Tavington stiffened. He might have put Margaret in a position to have been abducted, but he had not beaten her and he had not tied her into a boat with serpents. He had not broken her wrist and he had not created a mess.

"Yes, your mess. I am ordering her to remain here, at Fort Carolina. She will not be permitted to go to your camp, she will not be permitted to lead you on wild chases and she will not be permitted to go out on her own."

"My Lord…"

"Quiet, Colonel Tavington." Cornwallis' quiet rage was visible in every taught muscle of his neck and the red of his face. "I am forbidding it and you will follow my orders."

"So she is to be placed under arrest….imprisoned? For their crimes against her?"

"For her own protection, I assure you." The Lord General sighed as he released the tension and glanced at where Margaret slept. "She saw their hideaway. Whether she knows it's precise location is irrelevant, she knows that this group of guerilla soldiers are the ones responsible for taking my things. They are thieves and scoundrels. More so the rebels have targeted her, not once, but twice to hear your telling. She is in grave danger….and as such she is a danger to your men…or any unit of men she might be seen with. I will not have it." Colonel Tavington hadn't thought of that. "For now, she will remain at Fort Carolina. She will not be under arrest per se, but she will not be allowed to leave the Fortress until this has blown over."

"Yes my lord." Tavington stepped back, that he might bow to his superior officer.

"You may go. Wake Miss St. Claire and return her to her room. You may tell her of her impending house arrest." Tavington bristled at the order but turned on his heel and left the Lord General standing at the window.

Looking down on Margaret in the afternoon light, Colonel Tavington realized how pale she still was. She had overexerted herself in the telling of her ordeal. Sweat beaded at her brow and across her split upper lip and the circles beneath her sunken eyes seemed darker against the paleness of her skin.

"You know my decision is the correct one Colonel."

"My Lord?" Tavington looked up from Margaret's battered features and stared at the Lord General where the man still stood beside the window.

"You care for her. I can see it in the way you look at her." The Lord Generals' features softened slightly.

"You're mistaken my Lord…"

"Don't lie Colonel." The Lord General turned back to the window, his eyes going to the men below his window. "Even if you haven't quite admitted it to yourself, you've become infatuated with this colonial woman. You know I've made the correct decision to keep her at the Fort. I can't afford to have _you _doing anything brash trying to save _her._" The General focused on Tavington again. "Or woo her. Leave her here. Forget her if you can. Court her if you must, but don't lose your focus."

"That won't be a problem My Lord." The Lord General watched as the soft expression that had been on Tavington's face disappeared behind an icy wall of indifference. "I shall always see to my duties." Tavington reached down and nudged Margaret's shoulder rather harder than he intended. He watched her eyes snap open and look around for the threat.

"Come, Miss St. Claire. Your audience with the Lord General is finished and you shouldn't take up more of his time." Margaret nodded and struggled to rise from the chair. In spite of the coolness that Tavington had affected, he reached down and helped her rise, feeling her lean into his arm as they slowly strolled from the room.

"And Colonel?" Tavington turned at the door, he and Margaret glancing at the Lord General just as he had reached for the handle.

"Yes my Lord?"

"You'll inform her of my decision." The Lord General smiled slightly at Margaret as she looked from him to the Colonel, confusion showing clearly in her still sleep muddled eyes. "Good day to you, Miss St. Claire."

"Good day my Lord." Margaret dipped a low curtsey and let Tavington guide her from the room.

Margaret stepped away from Colonel Tavington as he turned to shut the door behind them. She took slow steps up the corridor, watching as it tilted alarmingly from one side to the other, elongating as she stopped and shut her eyes against the nauseating sensation.

"Miss St. Claire?" Tavington watched the woman stiffen in the hallway and bring her good hand to her brow, a look of pain twisting her features. "Margaret, are you alright?"

"A moment, Colonel." The whispered words brought Tavington to her side and he touched her elbow gently. "I should not have stood so fast….a dizzy spell, that's all." Tavington waited as he watched her steady her breaths and slowly open her eyes. She acted as if she'd run a great race, not taken a few short steps from a room.

"It looks a deal more than a dizzy spell." Tavington grasped her chin and turned it towards him. Her eyes were fever bright and they danced back and forth as she stared up at him. He brushed the loose hair at her temple and watched her eyes drift closed with the motion, she leaned into the touch, relishing the cool feeling of his fingertips. "You're burning up…"

She grasped his arm with her good hand and closed her eyes tight against the wave of dizziness passing over her. "I'm so sorry, Colonel Tavington…so sorry…" She tried to step back from him.

"Whatever are you talking about?" The Colonel moved with her as she stepped away.

"For causing trouble…"

"You caused no trouble."

"This is all my fault." She breathed. "All of it. If I hadn't fought…"

"What?"

"This…and this." Margaret touched her wrist and her face with her left hand. "It's my fault. I struggled against them….I was obstinate….foolhardy. Just as you always say…" Margaret swayed and grasped his arm again. "If I hadn't fought so bloody damn hard…."

"You would not be the woman we all admire so…." Tavington brought her fevered gaze to his own cool one. "Do you understand? You are not to blame….if anyone is to blame it is I."

"No…" Margaret tried to shake her head but he held her still.

"I should never have put you in such a position. I should never have asked you to spy…"

"Gather information." Margaret whispered with a small smile. "You never asked me to spy."

Margaret watched as Tavington's eyes seemed to change. Was that…a smile? Not the cold, feral thing that everyone saw in his dealings with the army. It was a real smile that only barely touched his lips, but radiated brightly from his eyes. Margaret wasn't sure if it was the fever or the secret smile that stole her breath. "Don't blame yourself. "

"I won't if you won't." Tavington's formal veneer came over his eyes as they both heard an aide coming up the stairs. Margaret gripped the Colonel's arm and let him slowly guide her towards the stairs. "Dizziness gone?"

"Most of it." Margaret's voice was still whisper thin. Tavington felt her sway as she walked, occasionally pulling away from him only to lean back against him a moment later.

"You're not being truthful." He caught her around her waist as she began to topple forward, clutching her to his chest as her knees gave out. "You're not well at all."

"It would seem I'm not." She whispered against his chest. "I don't think I can make the stairs…"

"Put your arm around my neck…" Margaret's left arm curled around Tavington's shoulder sluggishly as he hoisted her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as her head fell gently to his shoulder. "Margaret?" Margaret shuddered in the Colonel's arms as a wave of black crashed over her vision and she fainted, the loose hold she'd had on his coat falling away. Tavington took the stairs slowly, carefully baring her to the chamber at the top of the stairs. He lay her upon the settee and opened the window that the breeze might cool her.

Tavington moved to the wash basin and took up the wash rag, soaking it in the cool water and bringing it to the settee. He settled into the straight backed chair and leaned over Margaret, dabbing the side of her face and neck with the wet rag. She slowly opened her eyes and stared at Tavington. Her mouth moved, but no sound issued forth.

"Stay still. I'll send the surgeon up to see to you." Margaret closed her eyes and turned away from him as Constance came bustling in to the room. Tavington slowly relinquished his place to the dark skinned woman and went to fetch the surgeon, and to do as the Lord General commanded and put as much distance between him and Margaret St. Claire as he could.


	15. Trapped

_Thanks for being patient. I'm having problems with some chapters and I'm preparing to move, so the next few updates might be slower than what they've been in the past. Believe me though, they will be forth coming. I have part of the last chapter already written. It's bridging the gap between this and that last scene that's proving a real pain in the can. Please review, please stick with me and we'll all get through this together._

* * *

"That's good Miss St. Claire. That's real good." Constance eased Margaret onto the settee and stepped back. "Your strength's comin' back real good."

"It doesn't feel like it." Margaret leaned weakly against the cushions of the settee and closed her eyes.

"God didn't make de world in a day. You won't get your strengt' back overnight." Margaret sighed and watched the other woman stripping sheets and bustling around the small room. It had been more than a week since her tea with Lord General Cornwallis and she'd spent a good amount of that time in bed, sick with a fever. The doctor had admonished her to rest, to allow her body time to heal, but she was tired of being tired and wanted desperately to leave the small room. Constance bustled from the room and Margaret struggled to her feet. Slowly, she shuffled across the floor and went to the window to look down into the yard. Everything was muddy with the early spring rains and the yard had been churned to a swampy mess by the men drilling every day beneath the windows for the benefit of the Lord General. General Cornwallis had ordered the drilling field moved outside of the fortress and even now Margaret could see the infantrymen working to level a parade ground out of the terrain at the base of the hill. Constance came back in the room and remade the bed, glancing every once in a while at where Margaret stood at the window.

"You look pale already. Shouldn't be on your feet yet."

"I've been in bed over a week." Margaret moved her arm slowly, curling her aching muscles. "I feel like an child's rag toy."

"You get back over here. Ought to be in bed, or sittin' down. Recovering like a lady." Margaret stayed at the window, her eye drawn to the troop of dragoons riding in. She watched as Colonel Tavington stomped smartly into the house, followed by several others—Borden, Hooker, O'Dell and Wilkins.

She eased away from the window as Wilkins glanced up towards it. She wasn't sure she wanted to be seen by anyone. Slowly, Margaret made her way back across the floor and allowed Constance to tuck her back into bed. No matter what Margaret tried to tell her, Constance refused to believe that Margaret was anything but a fine lady. Once satisfied that her charge was tucked in securely, Constance made to leave the room. She bent to Margaret's lunch tray, which still contained a piece of hard bread and half a bowl of soup.

"You need to eat more."

"I can barely chew it." Constance heaved a sigh and shook her head as she toed the door open and came face to face with Captain Wilkins. Constance brushed past, hardly acknowledging the Captain's presence.

"Ruffling feathers?"

"She's mad I'm not more lady like. And that I have no appetite." Margaret fiddled with the edge of the blanket on the bed and stared at the stitching. It was neat and even. Someone had taken great care in making the quilt. She heard a chair scrape across the floor and watched out of the corner of her eye as James sat down at her bedside.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Well enough I suppose." James reached out and covered her fidgeting hand with his own. She glanced up quickly and regretted meeting his eyes as soon as she had done so.

She saw pity there. She had never been vain before, but she was certainly more self conscious than she had been before. The cuts pulled tight at the skin over her cheek and lips and she knew her eyes were still puffy and discolored. She assumed that with all the fevers and her lack of appetite her eyes must be sunken and ringed in dark circles. She glanced away again and pulled her hand away from his.

"You don't have to stay." She whispered. "I'm not much at conversation these days, and I know I must still look a fright."

James turned her face back to his. "I will stay, because I want to." He said slowly, gazing at each and every mark on her face. Most of the damage would fade; the cuts on her lips and the bruising. The cut across her left cheek was an angry red and pink color. He was certain she'd bear a small scar from that in spite of the small stitches the surgeon had managed. The deeper of the cuts across her upper lip might scar as well, but there was no way of knowing until she healed.

"I've brought some thing for you…." Margaret searched the Captain's kind face and smiled slowly as he produced a book from inside his coat. "It's not much, but I thought you might enjoy something to read, since you're stuck in bed recovering."

"Thank you." Margaret ran her fingers over the books leather covering. "I do appreciate it."

Constance bustled in with tea and James took the time to pour out before he brought Margaret a cup. He watched as she took a sip of the brew and coughed. "Too strong?"

Margaret grinned into her teacup and then, in spite of the pain it caused, gave James as full a smile as she could. "A bit."

"Sorry." James sipped his own tea.

"What's in it exactly?" Margaret sipped at the doctored tea, feeling the soothing properties ease down her throat, still hoarse even after so many days of not speaking.

"Whiskey….lemon. Real tea."

"Where on earth did you find lemon?" She whispered. "And real tea? It must have cost a fortune."

"Don't worry about that. The lemon isn't fresh, that's for certain. Dried out old thing."

"It's wonderful James. Thank you." They drank in companionable silence for a time, neither one really needing to say anything. Margaret tried to set her tea cup on the bedside table herself, but needed James' assistance as her right arm was still bound in a sling.

"Does it still hurt?"

"Yes." Margaret rubbed at the back of her hand, itching at the linen tied about her scarred wrists. "The doctor said he doesn't think it is broken…but it certainly hurts like it is." James curled his hand gently beneath her right hand where it lay in the sling, slowly caressing the palm of her hand.

"I'm sorry Margaret."

"For what?"

"For this….for everything you've gone through."

"It's my own fault. I've been over it with the Colonel already." She tried to stifle a yawn, but hissed as her jaw ached and the cut on her lip split.

"You should rest. Everything for the tea is on the tray; I'm sure the other woman can doctor it up for you." James watched as her eyes drooped closed even as she tried to focus on him. "Rest well, I hope you feel better."

"I rest all day….I need a rest from resting." Margaret replied wearily, but try as she might, Margaret could not keep her eyes open.

* * *

"She's strong enough Colonel. She needs to know." The surgeon shifted his weight as he spoke to the Dragoon Colonel. "She's growing restless in that room. No one has yet explained to her that she's under house arrest."

"Bother." Colonel Tavington slammed down the correspondence he'd been reading and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. The dragoons had set up a camp little more than a mile from Fort Carolina, needing the extra room for their horses. Tavington was close enough to respond to Lord General Cornwallis's summons—when they came—but far enough away that he wasn't tempted to see Margaret. He'd done quite well avoiding her the past two weeks since everything had been relocated to Fort Carolina. "You're certain she's well enough?"

"Yes sir. She's beginning to walk the halls, and has even taken the stairs once, if Constance is to be believed. But she ought to be told sooner, rather than later that she will not be permitted to leave the fort."

"I'll see to it Doctor." Tavington snapped. But Tavington remained in his tent for some time, trying to think of the best way to break the news to Margaret St. Claire that she was no longer a free woman.

* * *

Margaret winced as the doctor cut loose the last of the stitches. They'd been in for two weeks, and the doctor had decided it was time they came out lest she end up with an infection. Constance held her hand as the doctor tried to careful cut the stitches from her face, but it was still painful. The doctor sopped up what little blood had seeped from the wound and then allowed Constance to dress it. The woman smeared a bit of honey across Margaret's cheek before attaching a small square of linen. It was the best way to fight off infection and keep the wound clean. Margaret heaved a sigh when she was done and smiled at Constance, testing the muscles in her face now that they were unhindered by stitches.

"Not too much wid dem smiles. You'll open dat cut back up and we'll be stitchin' you agin."

"Of course, Constance." Margaret looked up as the Doctor opened the door and found Colonel Tavington standing on the other side of it.

"Colonel!" The doctor nearly dropped his tray of tools and then glanced into the room at her. "I don't think now is the best time…."

"You are the one who said she was ready. Now get out of my way." Tavington practically growled. The doctor let the Colonel pass him and then motioned for Constance to follow him. Margaret sat in the bed and watched Colonel Tavington stalk towards her. He seemed very official, his boots shone brightly, his saber hung from his hip and his helmet was clutched beneath his arm.

"Margaret St. Claire, I'm here to inform you, that by order of Lord General Cornwallis, you are to remain at Fort Carolina until such time as you are no longer considered a threat to the men in his majesty's army."

"A threat?" Margaret watched as Tavington brought his cold eyes from the wall over her head down to her. Her eyes were ringed in red, and her lips looked thin and pale, but she was glaring at him with the intelligent and cunning eyes he found too easy to fall into. "How am I a threat to the men of the army?"

"The rebels have singled you out. It has been decided that you will remain within the walls of the fort until it is deemed safe for you to leave."

"And when will that be?" Margaret shot back. Her chest felt tight and she wanted to scream, or cry, or hit something. The frustration built up inside her and she looked stricken as the Colonel stared emotionlessly down on her.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that." Tavington watched as Margaret tried to digest the information given her. She had recovered well, the doctor was right about that much. "I'll send Constance in to see to…" he touched his own cheek where hers was bandaged. Spots of blood had sprouted on the clean linen.

"No need, Colonel." Margaret closed her eyes, as she tried to school her emotions. She heard the Colonel take a step closer and then another. She wouldn't look at him, couldn't.

Tavington stepped up to her bedside and bent close to her. He didn't know why, but he felt a need to comfort her in some way. He reached down, cradling the side of her head and swiftly kissed her brow, not knowing what else to do for her.

"I'm sorry." He whispered against her temple. He stood and then turned quickly, crossing the room and exiting the attic before Margaret could react.

She was a prisoner, and would remain so for an undisclosed period of time.

* * *

Weeks had passed with Margaret concentrating only on regaining her strength. She looked outside and saw the turned patch of ground she'd used the summer before to plant vegetables and herbs. She'd have to plant soon if she expected to have a harvest at all. She enlisted Constance and a few of the enlisted wives to help with the garden, and soon the little patch of garden was three times the size it had been. The women planted corn, squash and beans as well as potatoes, turnips, carrots and cabbages. The neat little rows were planted and tended in turns and it was decided among the planters that they would split whatever produce came out of the garden among them equally. Margaret planned on selling the bulk of her share to the army or supplementing the kitchens at Fort Carolina. Since she would not be permitted to leave the fortress, Margaret managed to get the women and some of the soldiers to bring her back things to replant in a specific section of the garden. She drew pictures of the leaves of the plants and gave descriptions of what she wanted brought back. By the end of May she had a wild garden planted full of all the plants of the forest that she used most in the hospitals. One of the women planted a plot of the garden with wild flowers and roses, and a small little pleasure garden grew up in one corner of the fortress, the vines of wisteria and primrose climbing the palisade bringing beauty to the austere severity of a military fortress.

Margaret could most often be seen moving about the fortress like some sort of spirit. Men hardly ever saw her face; she kept it covered with a shawl or scarf. She didn't want to see them staring at the scar on her face and she didn't want to be talked about in hushed whispers. She hated being the woman prisoner that couldn't be trusted to leave the fort, lest the rebels come and attack. Margaret assisted in the kitchens when she could, and was occasionally called on to help clean the rooms of the aides when the house maids and valets were overwhelmed, but no one really befriended her, and more often than not, Margaret was left alone.

Margaret awoke one lonely morning to a pewter gray sky, the air heavy with humidity and the promise of a storm. Throughout the morning she had moved around her small attic room, cleaning things that really didn't need cleaning and re-folding her clothes into a trunk for what felt like the hundredth time that week, just waiting for the storm to break. But as the morning eased towards afternoon and the storm had still not come, Margaret felt as if the four walls of her room were going to close in around her. She'd been hoping it would just rain and be done with it, but the weather was uncooperative and frustrating. Margaret heaved a sigh and slipped down the back stairs to the kitchen.

"You shouldn't go out." One of the women chastised as Margaret prepared to go to the garden, winding her shawl around her neck and pulling the cowl up over her head.

"Why not? A little rain never hurt anyone." Margaret grumbled as she took up the basket she used to carry things to the garden. "Besides, the garden hasn't been weeded at all this week."

"I'm sure a few more days wouldn't harm anything." One of the maids tittered. "We'll just be back out weeding again. Besides, there's them berries down by the road that should be coming ripe. Far more fun to go picking berries than weeds."

Margaret slammed her hand down on the work table, an action she swiftly regretted as it sent shooting pain up her wrist. She hid the wince behind an angry scowl as she glared at the women present. "Some of us can't go berry picking. Some of us are forbidden to leave the fort." She grabbed up her basket and swept out the kitchen door, fleeing the oppressive silence of the kitchen for the security of the oppressive humidity of the out of doors. As she ducked up the cellar stairs she pulled the cowl further over her head, shielding her face from the weak light and the stares of those milling about the courtyard. She ducked around the side of the house and made her way towards the corner of the fort where the garden was. The sound of horses hooves pounded the soggy earth behind her, but she paid little mind to the racket, brooding instead on her reaction to the maid's harmless chatter in the kitchen.

James saw the hooded figure skirt the corner of the building. If the determined gate hadn't been branded in his mind, he'd know it was Margaret based only on her hair; the loose reddish blonde fall of hair hung beneath the gray cowl pulled around her face. Tavington and Borden had already gone inside, while O'Dell made his way towards the armory to meet with his brother. Wilkins tossed his reins to a waiting groom and called out to Margaret.

"Miss St. Claire?" He shouted, but she did not respond, she only pulled her hood up higher around her face and quickened her pace. "Margaret!"

He too quickened his pace and caught up to her as she approached the stockade wall. He grasped her arm, trying to stop her and found himself held at knife point.

"Let me go." Margaret spat. James saw her hand shake as he let go of her, holding his hands out to show her he meant to harm. She took a shuddering breath and tossed her knife into the basket she was carrying. "I could have killed you…."

She tugged her scarf over her left cheek and turned away from him.

"I very much doubt it…."

"What, you think I'm not capable of it?" She tossed back over her shoulder.

"I know you are." James responded, keeping close on her heels.

"You don't know anything about me." She turned suddenly. "And stop following me!"

"How am I to speak with you if I don't follow?"

"You're not. That's the whole point." She turned abruptly. "Why are you here?"

"I came with Colonel Tavington. I hoped to see you though." Margaret shook her head and turned back towards the garden.

"Well now you've seen me, good bye." She carefully walked between two rows of growing plants and set her basket down ahead of her, angrily pulling weeds from between the rows, heedless of the rain that had begun to fall in a misting, miserable drizzle. _Wonderful...now the weather is reflecting my mood. _She felt as if a great pressure was building up in her chest and she found it hard to take a full breath, wanting so desperately to get a good cry out, but unwilling to succumb to the desire.

"Why the cold shoulder Margaret?" James crouched in the next row, reaching for one of the weeds near his boot. He watched her lean out to reach one of the weeds and then pull back suddenly, rubbing her wrist as she sat back on her heels. "Why don't we go inside…."

"No!" Margaret's voice was thick with un-shed tears. "I don't want…I'm tired…."She turned her head away from him and he heard her sob softly. He reached out and lay a hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away from him, her shoulders shaking with her tears. "Leave me…please."

James stood, carefully crossed the row of vegetables between them and pulled Margaret gently to her feet. She tried to pull away, but he easily turned her to face him.

"I will not leave, not until you and I have a conversation Margaret." He pushed the hood back slightly from her face, the better to see her. She tried to pull away, to hide, but he held her chin and traced the pink stripe that crossed her cheek, still vibrant and raw even after so many weeks. She kept her eyes downcast and wiped angrily at the tears on her cheeks.

"What could you possibly want to talk about? What has a prisoner to say to an officer?"

"Margaret…."

"No, it's the truth!" She glared up at him, her watery eyes finally meeting his. "What could you possibly want to say to me?" The rain began to fall steadily from the sky as she stared up at him, the rain mixing with her tears. "What!?" She finally demanded, stomping her foot as the rain fell harder.

He pulled her close and held her as she began to sob anew.

"Shhh…it's alright Margaret…." He soothed as he gently rubbed her back. "It will be alright."

"No it won't. I hate this…so much!" She sobbed harder, pressing her face into the wool of his coat, holding onto him as if he were a rock in a raging river that was threatening to sweep her away. James stood still, gently holding her as she sobbed in the rain. When the wind picked up and blew the rain down is collar. James looked around and spied the lean-to shielding the wood pile. He took Margaret by her elbow and guided her beneath the small shelter. He leaned against the wood pile and held her close while she continued to sob into his coat. She hiccupped twice and leaned back. "You must think me some sort of babbling twit…." She sniffled and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

"I think you're going through a very difficult time right now, and I think it's putting you under an incredible amount of stress." He chucked her gently beneath the chin. "And I think you're reacting to it as anyone in your situation would."

"Like a babbling twit." James pushed the hood from her head and threaded his fingers into her hair, pulling it from the scarf to run his fingers through the length of it.

"Like someone who has been grievously hurt. Like someone who is scared." He traced a fingertip over the scar on her cheek. She tried to pull away, but he pulled her closer. "Does it hurt still?"

"Not really. It itches though….and they all stare at me." Margaret stepped back and leaned against the wood pile beside James. They sat hip to hip for a time while the rain fell steadily. He noted that even though she presented him with her left side, she made a point of pulling her hair in front of her face, blocking the scar, which for all its horribleness added something to her attractiveness.

"Is that why you came out here to weed in the rain?"

"I felt like the walls were going to collapse around me." Margaret glanced up at James, hugging her arms tight around her middle. "And then they told me I shouldn't come out, because it _would_ rain and weeding the garden wasn't important. They'd much rather go down the road to pick berries."

"And you can't go." Margaret shook her head.

"Petty, I know." She stared out at the rain. "I feel as if I can't breathe, though. Like I'm always being watched…."

"Except when you're in the garden."

"Even when I'm in the garden." Margaret closed her eyes, listening to the rain pelt down on the shake roof. "Half the time they make sure someone comes with me. I only made it out today because of the bad weather."

"And then I had to blunder along and ruin it." James nudged her shoulder and leaned forward to look into her face, "Can you forgive me?"

He saw her mouth turn up on the right side, a motion she must have gotten used to while her left cheek still bore stitches.

"I'll have to think on it." She said finally, the smile still touching her lips as she looked up at him. "Perhaps you'll have to petition for a pardon."

"Oh, is that so?" James smiled as well. "And how do I go about that?"

"I'm not sure….otherwise I'd have petitioned long ago. Or I would be doing it now instead of sitting in the rain." Margaret turned her attention back to the rain which had started to come down harder. "I suppose we'll both have to blunder through that process…"

"If anyone can figure it out, it's you." James grasped her hands, keeping her from twisting her apron, something she'd started doing during their conversation. They sat in silence until the rain began to ease up. "I should probably make ready to leave."

Margaret tapped her boot against the wet ground a few times before rising. "As should I. They'll probably think I made off during the storm. I might be a fugitive by now."

"Don't think like that Margaret." James admonished, grasping her hand before she could move too far away.

"It's hard not to when this is my life every day."

"You're stronger than this." James grasped her hands and turned her to face him. "And smarter. This can't last forever."

"But this will." She brushed her fingers against her scarred cheek. "And everyone will remember that I was the woman who let herself get captured and scarred for life."

James bent his head and quickly brushed his lips against the scar before pulling her hood back over her hair.

"And I say it reminds me of how bloody damn strong you are, and how you were smart enough to survive." She searched his face, looking for a lie that wasn't there, a weight suddenly lifting from her. "Remember that Margaret."

"I will." James took a few steps into the misting rain and then immediately stepped back, stealing a quick kiss before making a dash towards the stables.

"I'll call on you!" He shouted over his shoulder as he moved towards the stables. She grinned as she continued to stand beneath the lean to until she heard the horses thunder from the yard. She _was _strong. She'd done nothing wrong, and it was time she stopped feeling guilty.

She retrieved her sodden basket and a few herbs from the garden for dinner, before returning with considerable more bounce in her step than she'd left.

She had her life to regain.


	16. Boons

Weeks slipped by and Margaret grew used to her confinement within the fort. She ignored the whispers and jeers of other people and spent most of her days in the garden. She took up for the army administration where she'd left off with the dragoons, and spent much of her evenings and rainy days mending and sewing. The bustling days of late spring slipped into the lazy days of summer; Margaret watched it all from within the stockade of Fort Carolina.

While the world outside shifted from one season to the next, Margaret noticed very little change within the great wall of the fortress. She could observe her plants growing, and the weeds, but there was no _change _to them. Occasionally she'd notice that the units had changed, or see the dragoons coming and going on some mission or another, but otherwise her world had collapsed down to the hill top fort. Whenever she felt like her world was truly about to collapse around her ears, she remembered what James Wilkins had told her: She was smarter and stronger than what she was allowing herself. Often, she could be seen climbing up onto the stockade wall to walk the rampart or climbing up into one of the two gables of the house, just to be able to see out beyond the high walls. Margaret longed to leave the fort, but could think of no way to approach the Lord General to have him lift her sentence.

By June, it was too hot for Margaret to wander the fort with her wool scarf over her head, and she spent too much time bending over her plants and herbs to allow her hair to hang in her face or fall freely. If people chose to stare at her, she pretended not to notice. Every once in a while a flicker of her old mettle shone through and she'd return their curious stares as levelly as she could, daring them to ask what had happened, or to force them to look away first. By the end of the month, Margaret hardly remembered the scar existed, except when it itched.

Margaret was scrubbing the floors of the second floor of the house one day when a pair of highly polished riding boots entered her vision. She sat back on her heels and brushed a stray bit of hair from her face as she gazed up at Colonel Tavington.

"You're impeding my work." She heard Molly, a small, frail looking kitchen girl gasp. Margaret saw the dark skinned girl grab her bucket and rush from the hall. Margaret tossed her scrub brush roughly into the bucket, hoping to splash water on Tavington's boots. "And you're scaring my help. Now I shall either have to waste time chasing Molly down or be forced to clean this hall all by myself."

"And here I came to say hello and see how you were doing?"

"You handed down my sentence. I didn't think men like you would want to be seen conversing with the likes of women who endanger the men of the army." Margaret wiped her hands on the corner of her apron and struggled to rise, so long had she been on her knees. She was surprised when Colonel Tavington reached out and assisted her.

"Good to see that rapier wit hasn't been dulled by your…incarceration."

"Never." She stared evenly at Colonel Tavington. She had not spoken to him since the day he'd told her she was to be confined to the Fort. He guided her towards one of the recessed windows and together they looked out over the fort. "What brings you here Colonel?"

"I have a meeting with his Lordship." Tavington watched her out of the corner of his eye, conscious that she was doing the same to him. "I merely thought to be polite and enquire as to your well being."

"I'm not a free woman. How do you think I'm faring?" Margaret turned her full attention to the Colonel. "If you're to see his Lordship, do you think there might be some way to see about my being pardoned…or released…or _whatever_ happens when one is under house arrest?"

"Colonel Tavington?" The Colonel turned at General O'Hara's summons.

"I'll do what I can…" Margaret nodded and took up her bucket.

"And I'll do what I must to keep my mind from breaking." She dipped a quick curtsey to General O'Hara on her way past him and slipped down the same stairs Molly had. "But I won't hold my breath." She muttered to the dark stairwell.

* * *

The meeting was long and boring and completely useless. What good was sitting back _discussing_ the rebels when he should be out _hunting _them. Bureaucracy would get them nowhere in the colonies, just as it had gotten them nowhere in the past one hundred years as an empire. It took leaders, men of _action_ to accomplish things. To bring rebels to heel and end their treason. Add to that, it was Bureaucracy keeping Margaret held captive. What had she done to deserve being held prisoner? She was the _victim_ not the instigator. Tavington let his mind drift to his brief encounter with her in the hall. She was hiding behind a façade. She was showing a very strong front, but Tavington had seen a look of such despondency in her eyes that he worried for the woman. Surely, being kept in one place, with such limited mobility and an utter lack of scenery would break even the strongest of men before too long.

Eventually the meeting dwindled to a close and the other officers slipped out. Tavington stood slowly and cleared his throat, drawing the Lord General's attention.

"Is there something you wish to discuss, Colonel?" General O'Hara came in and stood impassively beside the Lord General.

"Yes, my lord. I wish to discuss the continued incarceration of Miss St. Claire."

"Who?" The Lord General looked up at Tavington and then glanced at O'Hara.

"The young woman who was attacked by the rebels this Spring, sir."O'Hara clarified.

"Oh…indeed. How has she fared?" The Lord General asked. Tavington seethed. Here Margaret was under the same roof as the man and he couldn't be bothered to see to her welfare.

"I believe that physically she has healed quite well. But mentally…."

"She is unstable?" O'Hara asked.

"No, sir. She is very stable. But I believe she is wearing down under this….house arrest."

"But she is under house arrest for her own safety, as well as that of the men."

"Protection my men are willing to forfeit." Tavington ground out. "She became something of a good luck charm or mascot to the men."

"And to you?" The Lord General glared at Colonel Tavington. "What is she to you?"

Tavington knew what the Lord General was getting at. Cornwallis wanted him to admit that Margaret meant more to him than just a scout, spy or mascot. The man must want him to admit that he loved Margaret, or that she had been his concubine while in the camps.

"My Lord, my _relationship_ with that young woman has been completely above board. Nothing…untoward has happened, in spite of what you may think. I have distanced myself from her, at your behest, and had been doing so since before her abduction." Tavington cleared his throat and maintained eye contact with Cornwallis. "But, were it not for me, she would neither be here nor have any association with the army, and so I feel she is my responsibility."

Cornwallis was silent, returning the stare that Tavington had leveled at him. The man sighed and then glanced out into the afternoon sun.

"You say she is un-well?" Cornwallis turned back to Tavington. "How do you know?"

"She spent a great deal of her time supplementing the army with food and medicine from the swamps. She had the freedom to do as she pleased, and to wander the forests at will."

"Which is how she came to be in this situation in the first place." Tavington ignored the Lord General's interruption.

"She has not been out of these walls for nearly two months, sir. If she cannot be trusted to wander on her own, then at least let her out with a guard."

"We are here to win a war, Colonel. Not babysit women who do not know their place." O'Hara interjected. Tavington clenched his fist on his helmet and ignored the General's aide.

"I tend to agree with O'Hara. But you are right, Colonel. You are responsible for her being here and are therefore responsible for her wellbeing." The man glanced out the window again and then turned his gaze back to Colonel Tavington. "I want you to go to your men and dispatch them as we discussed this afternoon. Tomorrow you may return and take Miss St. Claire for a turn outside of the fort. I will leave the destination and the choice of activity up to you, but I will demand that she be back by sunset….before the sally port is closed. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, My Lord." Tavington bowed to his superior officers and quickly left the room lest the old man come up with more rules, or change his mind.

* * *

Margaret entered her room and turned to secure the door behind her. As she did, she kicked something and it skittered across the floor. She made sure her bolt was thrown and then bent to search for whatever it was she had just kicked. Beneath the bed she found a piece of parchment folded into a square. She set her candle on the table beside her bed and sat to read the note.

_Margaret, _

_I could not get your sentence suspended, I did _

_however manage to secure you a day of freedom._

_Be ready to ride out tomorrow after you break your fast._

_Regards,  
Col. W.T._

Margaret's breath caught in her throat.

_Freedom!_

Granted, it would only be for one day, but she was going to be allowed outside the stockade. She felt as if she could have flown. The news made her so happy she barely slept that night. She was up with the dawn, and, afraid she'd oversleep, she scrambled from bed and started to get ready for the day. She washed her face and hands and as much of her body as she could in the little basin. She combed out her hair and managed to get it plaited and pinned to her head in a respectable enough fashion. Turning to the trunk beside the window, she dug through it and picked a gown that would be suitable both for riding and walking. She chose a dark green skirt and paired it with a short dress embroidered with tiny green and orange flowers and vines. She stomped into her boots as quietly as she could and then slipped down to the kitchen to help with the morning baking and setting out of the morning meal for the officers and aides.

That was one thing Margaret could say for Garrison life….the food was certainly better. Or perhaps it was just because the Lord General was in residence. Regardless, there was sausage or bacon most mornings as well as eggs and fresh baked bread. No gruel or hardtack or salt pork to be found in the Lord General's kitchens.

Margaret was chewing on a roll when she heard the sally port open. She tried not to show her excitement and slowly made her way into the mist shrouded morning. Colonel Tavington sat atop his horse and looked around the bustling little yard. She waved from the doorstep and went back into the kitchen to fetch her shawl and a satchel full of food she'd quickly put together.

"Well, you're ready bright and early." Tavington called to her.

"Did you really think I'd miss a moment of this?" Tavington dismounted and stared down at Margaret in the early morning light. She wore no mob cap or straw bonnet and the early morning light turned her hair a fiery copper color.

"I've secured you a mount for the day." Tavington said clearing his throat and looking away from her. "The Lord General clearly stated that you are to be back before the sally port closes this evening. We may go wherever you like, but just keep that curfew in mind."

"We?" Margaret stopped suddenly and turned to look at Colonel Tavington.

"You didn't honestly think you'd be permitted out on your own? Not after what happened last time."

"I hadn't thought about it." The groom appeared and boosted Margaret up into the saddle of the docile little mare he brought out. Next to the big black the Colonel always rode, it might as well have been a pony. But it was all the horse Margaret needed and she reached down and pet the animal as the Colonel led the way towards the sally port.

Margaret rode to the gates and pulled her horse to a halt. Never had she seen anything look as beautiful as the view out the front gates that morning. Distant hills rolled green and blue against a sky bluer than Tavington's eyes. Fields rolled golden and green away from the fort and the parade field at the base of the hill was a black rectangle tucked against the road. She could see smoke from the many camps scattered through the countryside and could even see tents set up in neat rows out amongst the glades.

"You're not afraid are you?" Tavington had turned his horse back towards the gate when he realized she was no longer beside him.

"No…just enjoying the view." Tavington took a moment to take in a sight he'd taken for granted and tried to see it as Margaret did, a prisoner catching a glimpse of freedom. He kept an eye on Margaret as she gathered her reins and took a deep breath before easing her horse through the gate. She brought her horse up beside his and looked around at a view un-obstructed by stockade walls.

"Are you certain you're not nervous?" Tavington whispered.

"Of…of course not. I'm not nervous." Margaret stammered.

"Then ease up on the reins." Tavington reached across where Margaret had a white knuckled grip on the reins. She looked down and slowly loosened her grip on the leather in her hands. "That's better. Now….where should we go off to?"

"Anywhere that isn't here." Margaret smiled up into the sun and let the horse stomp beneath her. "I honestly didn't think of a place…I just want to be free."

"Then let's go." Tavington kicked his horse, causing it to rear before it plunged forward. Margaret's little mare sidled, avoiding the big cavalry horse before Margaret could get it to hand and she smiled as she watched Tavington gallop away down the road. She kicked the mare, urging it to follow and raced after the Colonel.

She felt the breeze twist through her hair and the wind on her face as the horse thundered up the road after the Colonel. She could have shouted she was so elated. Instead she laughed; long and loud, she laughed as she urged her mare faster, even though she knew there was no way to catch up to the big black charger.

Tavington pulled his horse up and turned in the road to watch as Margaret caught up to him. He could see her smile even from the distance he'd set between them, and soon the sound of her laughter drifted to him as well. She drew close and continued to smile up at him.

"Thank You Colonel." She laughed again, gripping her ribs and doubling over. She finally let loose the shriek she'd held in and sat up, looking at the Colonel's expression almost sent her into another fit of laughter.

"Perhaps I was wrong…" The Colonel muttered, turning his horse away and walking it farther up the road.

"Wrong? You? I would never believe it." He turned sharply, seeing the smile still plain on her face.

"You have gone mad." Margaret snorted.

"I most certainly have not. I'm sorry if it bothers you that I'm _enjoying_ my first taste of freedom in almost three months." Tavington turned back to see Margaret lifting her face up to the sun and breathing deeply of the air.

"I will not begrudge you that." Margaret's eyes snapped open and she stared at the man she rode with. "I had not realized it was so long."

"I spent most of it recovering." Margaret kicked her horse into a trot, moving forward to block his path. "I wouldn't expect you to know exactly how long I've been trapped within the fort. But I do want you to know how much I appreciate this. I know it couldn't have been easy to request this of the General Cornwallis. I'm sure there are other boons you'd much rather have had granted."

"None with results as positive as this."

Margaret and the Colonel continued for some time, passing a few foot patrols, but otherwise enjoyed the quiet and cool morning in silence. The Colonel dismounted beside a stream and helped Margaret do the same. While she drank and sat beside the creek, merely running her fingers through the cool water, Colonel Tavington remained beside his horse and as Margaret watched he took the oilskin from behind his saddle and unrolled it on the ground. He began removing saber, pistols and then set to work on his belt and scabbard. Margaret stood from the creek and went to stand beside him.

"What are you doing?" She asked, brushing her hand along the satiny whithers of the Colonel's horse. He met her gaze as he set the belt beside his other accoutrements before rising.

"I didn't much think you'd care to be seen with the most hated man in the Colonies." Margaret watched as Tavington struggled to shrug out of his jacket. She quickly moved behind him and helped pull the coat from his shoulders and handed it to him. He knelt to the ground and removed a gray coat from the folds of the oil cloth and handed it to Margaret so he could replace it with his red officer's coat. Efficiently he rolled almost everything into the tight little bundle before rising. He reached for the coat and Margaret held it out for him to shrug into it. She brushed her fingers across the seams, flattening the material across Tavington's broad back and removing stray bits of grass and dirt.

He gazed over his shoulder at her as she stepped around, examining the coat.

"You look like a dragoon trying to be a country gentleman." She said, brushing at lint clinging to the collar of the coat.

"Better to look like a dragoon trying to be a country gentleman than a dragoon looking for all the world like a great bloody target." He huffed, fastening the top most buttons and bending to retrieve his bundle of military trappings.

"Why change though? You're going to be riding with the most hated woman in the Carolinas." Margaret took up the reins to her horse and led it back up towards the road. "Or aren't I still a danger to the men of His majesty's army?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't willing to ride with you." Tavington's long strides overtook hers and he helped her up the small embankment to the roadway. "But for your safety, as well as mine, I think it is far better that I not be seen in crimson."

He turned his back on her and walked farther up the road, continuing their journey.


	17. sains et saufs

Margaret and Tavington had travelled through the early morning and were approaching the noon hour when Margaret began noticing familiar things about her surroundings. A rock beside the road here, a copse of trees there…she and the Colonel were walking the horses when she noticed a familiar poplar standing in the curve of the road. She froze a moment, suddenly realizing where the Colonel was escorting her to.

"Colonel…?" The word came out strangled, her breath catching somewhere between fear and elation. Tavington turned on his heel and glared back at her.

"Do you want us to be shot?" When Margaret looked at him uncomprehendingly he walked back towards her, leaving his horse to stand placidly in the middle of the road. "Why is it you think I changed out of my uniform today for this little journey, hmmm?"

"I don't know…." Margaret whispered.

"Because I don't feel like being a target for rebels. And believe me, Miss St. Claire, we are in enemy territory." The Colonel saw her visibly swallow, her eyes going wide. "So it will behoove you not to go tossing my rank about for every rebel in three miles to hear." He made to turn back to retrieve his horse when she called out to him in return.

"Then what am I to shout?"

"Nothing at all. It would be preferable to keep the shouting to a minimum." He took a few more steps before turning back to face her, his eyes taking in her stiff, silent posture.

"William." He said straightening, as if challenging her to use the name. She nodded once and then took a deep breath before releasing it on a shudder. She pulled the reins back and forth through her hands and then looked back to the Colonel.

"William….are we going where I think we are?"

"You're the scout." He said softly. "You tell me."

Tears brimmed in her eyes and she quickly shook her head, trying to keep them from falling. She turned away from Tavington and dashed the most stubborn tears from her eyes and then turned back.

"Why? Why now?" She was shocked at how fast he approached her, the intensity of his gaze unnerving her.

"I thought…." Tavington could see her hands shake as she stood trying to calm herself. "If you don't want to see them, we don't have to." He touched her chin, forcing her wild eyes to look up into his steady ones. "You have only to say the word and we will turn around and never look back."

"I don't know." She finally whispered. "I feel as I did this morning at the Fort. Part of me was elated to leave. Part of me was terrified."

"You said you weren't afraid."

"I lied." She took a shuddering breath and looked up the road. "I feel the same way now. Part of me wants to fly up this road….the other part wants to climb up on this horse and put this as far behind me as I can."

"What's stopping you?"

"Fear." She whispered. "I'm afraid of what I'll find at the end of this road. But considering what's happened over the course of this summer, I'm just as afraid of never having this opportunity again."

She stood in the middle of the road for a few minutes more before she looked up to see Tavington staring down at her.

"It's your choice. If it's any consolation at all, I'll be right beside you." Taking a deep breath Margaret nodded and flipped the reins over her horse's head.

"Could I get a leg up?" The Colonel boosted her into the saddle and she waited for him to mount as well before leading the way towards John Miller's Farm.

* * *

Margaret knew before she saw the house that the farm was abandoned. The fields were overgrown; weeds and cornflowers grew up between a sparse crop that had fallen from the ears last fall. She smelled no smoke on the air, which meant not only was no one cooking, but no one was clearing the lower fields of stumps and burning out the roots. She gritted her teeth and continued on, her heart falling now that she'd decided she wanted to see her family.

Slowly they rounded the curve in the road that brought them into view of the house. Margaret looked at the charred remains of the house that John Miller had built for his family. She took it all in; the abandoned state of the farm, the doors hanging haphazardly from the hinges of the barn and the scattered remains of the bricks that had once been the big chimney. She turned to see Tavington staring into the trees that lined the yard and led down towards the unplanted fields, ever watchful for an attack that she knew wouldn't come.

"It's abandoned…William." She struggled over the use of his first name. It seemed so foreign to be on a first name basis with the man known to everyone else as 'Colonel' or 'The Butcher.' He stared at her a moment, perhaps as shocked as her to hear his first name uttered. "There's no one here."

"You can't be sure of that…."

"Yes, I can." Margaret urged her horse closer to the skeletal remains of the house. "This place used to hum with life. Even on the first day I came here….the sound of a working farm greeted me. There are no such noises now." She dismounted and kicked through some of the debris that lay scattered where the front steps had been. Parts of the house still stood, nearly undamaged by the fire that had claimed half the house. Margaret stepped up onto the rickety porch, testing each board with her toe before stepping on it. She looked through the broken window into what had been the dining room and saw that though the chairs were gone, the heavy table and cupboard remained. The doors hung open on the giant cabinet and Margaret saw that none of her mother's dishes remained.

"They must have left." Margaret turned to see Tavington standing at the bottom of the stairs. "They took all the little things and left the heavy furniture that John couldn't move…"

Margaret walked back across the porch and stood at the top of the stairs looking down on Tavington, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Miss St. Claire, you must understand….I had no part in this."

Margaret stared down at the Colonel and studied his expression. He wouldn't have brought her here if he truly knew the state of the farm. She had to believe that.

"You didn't. Not directly." Margaret walked past him and strolled through the tall grass towards a distant oak tree. Tavington followed at a distance, wondering at her destination, then saw the simple little stone standing beneath the tree. He waited as she knelt beside the stone and began to clear it of tree branches and other detritus of the past winter.

He watched as she rose to her feet slowly, dusting her hands off and turned from the grave. As she approached she shot him a half smile.

"They left after Christmas as far as I can tell….but before the Spring planting."

"How do you know?"

"Mary put holly boughs on Mother's grave. Mary loved Christmas. After mother died, Mary said it was a shame that Mamman would not be able to see the beautiful decorations….she put holly on the grave every year." She glanced around. "But they left before John could get the spring planting done."

Tavington followed Margaret's gaze and took in the abandoned farm. He worried that something worse had befallen her family, but was willing to defer to her judgment. As much trauma as she had been through he was unwilling to suggest that her family may have met a most horrible end. He had brought the horses with him and he handed off the reins of her horse to her. She led the way through the tall grass to a low stone wall that bordered one of the fields. Trees created shade and there was a covered well nearby. When Margaret began to remove the saddle from her horse Tavington stepped forward and stopped her.

"What are you doing…?"

"I thought we could have lunch, Colonel." Margaret looked around. "It's peaceful enough here and I'm sure the horses could use a good roll in the dirt without their trappings."

Tavington looked around and, deeming the area safe enough, took over the duties of unsaddling the horses while Margaret went about the task of setting out their lunch. She went to the well and as she drew the cover off the opening, she saw letters crudely etched into it.

"Sais et sofs"

Margaret's hands shook as she looked at the words carved into the wood. A sob escaped as she brushed over the letters, thanking the good lord that Edward had been smart enough to carve her a message, and laughing at his still horrible spelling. She buried her face in her hands and let her worry rush out in a torrent of tears. She could not stop them and she was not certain whether they were tears of joy or tears of sadness. What had driven them from the farm? Was it the rebels? Had they come after John because _she _had been spying for the British Army? Were they truly all safe as the message in the well cover seemed to indicate?

Tavington set his saddle atop the wall and turned to see what was keeping Margaret. He saw her crouched beside the well, her shoulders heaving and her hand resting atop the well cover before her. He approached slowly, watching as she took a few steadying breaths and then struggled to her feet, the whole time whispering a prayer beneath her breath.

"_Merci Seigneur. Accorde-leur votre protection et les ramener sains et saufs."_

"I never took you for the religious type." Margaret turned to face him.

"I'm not. But every so often, God reaches down and hands you a miracle." She sniffed and reached for the wooden bucket beside the well. "Such actions require thanks be given."

Tavington watched as she lowered the bucket quickly into the well and hauled up the water, he quickly went to help when he saw her right hand shake and she struggled to pull the bucket up. He covered her hand with his and took the rope from her, quickly hauling the bucket up and letting her coil the rope so they could carry the bucket to where they were to picnic.

"Now, what brought on that little display of piety." Tavington asked, reclining lazily along the edge of the blanket and taking up the cold chicken leg Margaret offered him.

"Edward…my oldest sibling." Margaret took a bite out of her own chicken leg and looked towards the well cover. "He managed to let me know that the family is indeed safe." Tavington looked to the well cover and then back at the woman beside him. "He carved a message in the well cover."

"How do you know it was him?"

"It's in French and it's poorly spelled." Margaret smiled slightly. "He was never one dedicated to literary pursuits."

"You taught them French?" Tavington watched as Margaret reached for a wedge of cheese and cut a small portion of it off for herself before passing it to him.

"Oui." Margaret smiled. "Actually, my mother was teaching them. It was her native tongue after all. I just continued the lessons when I got here."

Tavington watched Margaret eat a moment before he braved another question. "Were you…happy here?"

Margaret stared at him for a long moment before dropping her hands to her lap and looking out over the fields. "You know, at first I thought I was….I was free from my husband's family in Charlestown and I was surrounded by the woods I adored and was able to _help _people." She shook her head and looked back at Tavington. "But then…then I started to feel trapped. John couldn't make me a marriage contract. Or wouldn't. I mean, in me he had a housekeeper and someone to care for the children and teach them…and he ran his house with an iron fist."

"He beat you?"

"Lord, no! But he did like things run a certain way…." She shook her head and took another bite of cheese. "He hated that my mother insisted on speaking French and teaching the children the language. He insisted they have good strong English names."

"And so you were no longer Margueritte, but Margaret." Tavington watched as Margaret's lopsided grin widened.

"I was called Margaret long before John Miller started doing so. The Ravenelle family started that when my mother and I first went to live with them." Suddenly Margaret found herself talking about her life before William Tavington and the Royal Dragoons had come into it. She told Tavington about her father's death and how her mother had decided to move to Charlestown to be a governess. For the first time in many years she spoke at great length about her husband and her widowhood.

"The swamps took your father, that family took your name, your husband took your youth and his family your dignity….and I took your security."

"You gave me an escape." Margaret looked down and smiled at the relaxed man lying across the blanket from her. "You gave me adventure that I'd long given up hope of ever having."

"You're smiling…" Tavington narrowed his eyes as he returned her stare.

"I've never seen you look so relaxed is all." Margaret pulled her legs up and rested her cheek against her knee. "A true country gentleman on a pleasure ride today." When Tavington's icy gaze didn't waiver from hers she turned away and looked out over the long summer grasses nodding in the afternoon sunlight.

"Do you regret it?" He asked suddenly. Margaret looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"What?"

"Offering yourself up as a spy that night."

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

"No." Margaret looked at him again. "No, I honestly don't regret it. Before that night I felt as if I was trapped….as trapped as I felt in that boat a few months ago. No matter how I screamed or fought I couldn't leave this place. You rescued me. Both times, and for that, I thank you. Just as I've thanked you for rescuing me from the fort this afternoon."

"For a man known far and wide as the Butcher, I seem to do a lot of rescuing of a particular damsel."

"Do you regret it?"

"Not yet." Margaret looked out over the land that had been her home and was the place where her mother was buried. Because of that last fact, she would always feel a certain tie to this land, but in all honestly, her time here was done.

"And you William?" Margaret asked, suddenly feeling bold. "What of your family?"

"Gone." Margaret kept her gaze on Tavington as he continued to study the land. "There's nothing to discuss on that front."

"That's hardly fair…."

"And as you've come to understand, life is not fair." Tavington suddenly stood up and went to catch the horses. "Come, we'll have to leave soon if we're to get you back to Fort Carolina in time." Margaret sat a moment, contemplating the man she was sharing her day with and then decided to leave well enough alone. She gathered up the leavings from their lunch and then folded the blanket up, preparing to leave.

* * *

Margaret and Tavington took a fairly slow journey home with Margaret stopping frequently to gather plants or roots as they returned. They stopped a moment to watch a group of slaves working steadily along long rows of plants beneath the summer sun.

"Removing Tobacco worms." Margaret said. "Long work…"

"Miller grew corn…."

"And Tobacco, and a little bit of cotton. Some people grow rice and others have taken to growing nothing but indigo. John wanted to give it a go, but it's expensive to put in and takes a while to see a yield come out of it."

"You know a good deal about agriculture." The two of them continued up the road.

"I was a quick study." Margaret looked at the Colonel. "My husband was involved in shipping, and I did manage his books for a short while before his son took over the company. I learned what was being exported and the prices those goods could fetch on the market. From John I learned exactly what plants could and could not grow here."

"And what have you learned of war?" Margaret shrugged, a one sided motion as she tugged her horse away from the tall grasses growing beside the road.

"I've learned that the tactics the army has been using won't work against the men of the swamps. This is a new land, and a new age. The tactics have to change."

"Do they now? And what would you do to bring these rebels to heel, General Scout." Margaret looked over at Tavington as they walked through the trees. She looked deep into the woods, thinking of what she knew of the guerrilla soldiers.

"They will not meet you on an open field. They choose to strike from cover and they generally seem to like slower moving targets….supply trains, prisoner or wounded transports, _ships_. Seems to me you should use that against them." Tavington grew silent as they continued up the road, contemplating what Margaret had said. "Seems to me, if you could implement a Trojan Horse, you'd be one step closer to them."

"A Trojan….what would you know of Troy?"

"I am well read Colonel." Margaret stopped, taking in the sky as it began to turn shades of orange and pink. "And when one is confined to a fortress for months on end, one makes use of the library at hand." They stared at one another for long minutes, the sun sinking slowly behind the trees before Tavington finally shook himself free of his musings. He slowly unfurled the oilcloth from behind his saddle and returned the gray coat to its protective folds, donning once again his crimson jacket and the rest of his accoutrements. Once returned to his normal dress he turned and assisted Margaret into the saddle.

They rode in silence until they reached d the base of the hill that the fort sat on.

"I believe it's time I thank you, Margaret." Margaret turned to look at Tavington, his cold eyes boring into her.

"Whatever do you have to thank me for?"

"You've given me much to think on. Perhaps you will indeed be a General."

"I highly doubt that." Margaret laughed. Men were just lighting the torches on the stockade wall when they reached the gate. "Although, if I were a General, I would be able to abolish my sentence."

"No one can reverse the Lord General's decision….well, except the King." Margaret shrugged in response, turning once more to look at the setting sun before returning to her confinement within the fort.

"Then I am doomed." Tavington reached out and grasped Margaret's hand impulsively.

"You're intelligent. You're smarter than the whole lot of them put together. You'll beat this."

"Thank you again, William. It was a wonderful day."

"You forget yourself Scout." Tavington dropped her hand suddenly and swung up onto the back of his big black. "I am a Colonel in this army, and you will address me as such." Margaret glanced back to where the guard was preparing to close the gate, just barely out of ear shot. She nodded her understanding. "Get you inside before I shoot you for disregarding the Lord General's orders."

"Of course, Colonel. Good evening." Margaret dipped a quick curtsy and then walked through the gate just before it was closed for the night.

Tavington watched the doors close and then turned his horse towards the dragoon camp. The little colonial woman was full of surprises. She'd given him much to think about.

Including a potential way to entrap the colonials.


	18. Confrontation

Margaret's incarceration continued much as it had before her single day of freedom. There were times Margaret believed it all to be a dream, something that her mind had concocted in a delirium induced by being trapped within the fort. There were other times she knew it to be reality and she spent many days turning that single day of freedom over and over in her mind, cherishing the moments spent beyond the fetid walls of a fort overcrowded by men seeking favor from the Lord General.

With the overcrowding came illness though and Margaret found herself trying to assist the surgeon once again. But the doctor, a man sent recently up from Charlestown to relieve the ill surgeon that Margaret had impressed the winter before, wanted nothing to do with Margaret's knowledge of wood herbs and promptly sent her packing. He prescribed purgatives and bled the men who went to him already weak from the flux that affected nearly everyone within the fort. Margaret avoided the worst of it by boiling her water before drinking it, though she still occasionally felt ill.

With autumn's approach, Margaret spent the bulk of her days in the garden. She cultivated herbs and seeds to be made into medicines for her own use and began to slowly bring in the ripe vegetables to be divided amongst the women who had planted the garden. Many of the vegetables ended up in shared soups and stews as the weather began to turn colder and the leaves slowly began to lose their lush green in favor of golds and reds.

Margaret also spent a fair amount of time in her room working on an illustrated guide of plants and herbs that could be found in the area. She'd had a visit from Doctor Frasier a few weeks before and had learned that without her there, no one was able to bring them the herbs that she had been bringing in. Their supply was almost out, and without knowing exactly what they were looking for, they could not resupply themselves. One afternoon she was working on the guide, busily shading and coloring pages that she had inked the night before. She was about to lose her light, the sun slowly easing beyond the horizon; she'd have to stop soon, in an effort to ease the strain on her eyes and light some candles, but she desperately wanted to get the page she was working on completed. Her back began to ache and her fingers were stained with the ink she'd been using to paint some of the flowers. She stood from the stiff backed chair and stretched, pressing her hands against the small of her back to ease out the kinks. She crossed to her window and pushed it open, welcoming the breath of fresh autumn air that came gliding in. A loud commotion greeted her and she watched as the sally port was swung open and a group of men marched into the courtyard. The red-coated soldiers of the infantry established a perimeter around the foreyard and lowered their muskets at the group of civilians that had been herded into the yard behind them. The dragoons followed them in, guiding their horses into the fort behind the infantrymen. The gate closed and Margaret watched as the civilians were corralled into the makeshift jail while the infantrymen taunted and pushed them. From the attic, Margaret could make out little of the civilians. She noticed the dragoons dismount and saw James glance up towards her window as she leaned against the sash. He waved up to her and she gave him a small smile in return. She nodded towards the back garden and when he nodded his head she ducked back into her room and grabbed up her shawl before heading down the back stairs. She stepped into the early evening light and turned towards the wood pile, not surprised to find James already sitting atop it. He grinned at her, reached into his saddle bag and tossed her an apple, which she bobbled about before eventually dropping it. She laughed as she picked it up and crossed to lean on the wood pile beside him.

"Where'd you get this?" Margaret asked biting into the fruit. Her face puckered as the sour juice rushed around her mouth. James laughed.

"Early harvest. I see they're a bit tart?"

"Just a bit…" Margaret said, wiping juice from her lip and smiling. "It's wonderful though, thank you! How are you? It's been so long since we've been able to talk."

"I'm well, and you?" She shrugged. She and James had spoken infrequently through the last few weeks. She hadn't even seen Colonel Tavington.

"I have a project now, but I don't know how long it will keep me occupied." Margaret took another bite of the apple. "Besides, it's almost time to harvest…." She nodded towards the little garden, where the cornstalks were beginning to dry and yellow and the squash could be seen growing big and orange around them. They talked for a time about little things; James talked of the dragoons and life on patrol while Margaret explained to James the trouble they'd been having with water and the new surgeons' unwillingness to accept help.

"And those men?" Margaret finally asked, taking a final bite of her apple. "Who are they?"

"Criminals." Margaret shook her head and stared blankly at James waiting for more elaboration. "Men caught trying to rob a supply train red handed."

"Truly?" Margaret thought back to the rather large number of men captured. "Rather a lot of men to be overpowered, isn't it?"

"Ordinarily yes…but it wasn't an ordinary supply train." His eyes twinkled in the fading light.

"I don't understand…I thought you said they were caught red handed."

"Yes…attacking the Colonel's Trojan Horse."

"His what?" Margaret froze. The Trojan horse had been her idea; she'd given it to the Colonel weeks ago.

"Trojan Horse…not a real horse, it's from…"

"I know what it's from James. I've read Homer." She stood quickly and faced him. "What happened?"

"We couldn't speak of it before. The Colonel was afraid that the information would leak out and the rebels would find out about it." James briefly outlined how Tavington had implemented her idea of the Trojan Horse by hiding groups of infantry men in covered wagons and waiting for the rebels to attack. The Dragoons had been following at a distance, waiting for the opportune moment to spring the trap. It had taken weeks of failed attempts to finally lure the colonials in. "Rather genius of him, actually." James said admiringly. Margaret held her tongue. It was really her idea, but she wasn't about to argue the point with James.

"So what does he plan to do with his prisoners?" Margaret found it odd that the Colonel would take prisoners, he was far better known for leaving no survivors and she said as much to James.

"That's something you don't need to worry about."

"James…"

"It's not for me to say." James sighed. "In fact, their sentence hasn't been handed down yet, but if Colonel Tavington has his way, they'll wish they'd died on that road today."

"Why would the Colonel take such a malevolent stance against thieves?" Margaret's hands felt cold suddenly, and she fisted them into her shawl as waves of dread crashed over her.

"Margaret…"

"James, who are those men?" Fear suddenly closed an icy fist around her heart and she found it difficult to draw a breath as tears glistened in her eyes. "Who are they?" James tried to reach for her but she stepped away from him.

"Don't worry…"

"Who!?"

"They're the ones who hurt you." James spat, rising to his feet and coming forward. "At least, the Colonel thinks so." Margaret felt trapped and she looked around, searching for the means to escape.

"No…"

"We're not sure…."

"You brought them _here_?" James grasped her arms to keep her from moving about. "Why?"

"Margaret, you need to calm down…" She grasped his arms in return, trying to take steadying breaths, knowing he was right.

"I can't…I can't breathe." She grasped her side and looked up at the sky, trying to draw a full breath, but still finding it difficult.

"Margaret, we aren't sure they are the same men….but they might be from the same unit." James said slowly. "There's no need for hysterics."

"No need?!" Margaret fumed, she pushed away from James, even though he was the only thing keeping her anchored. "No need? I've been imprisoned inside this fort for _months _because I've been deemed _a danger _to the _entire _English Army based solely on what _those men_ did to me. And now I find out they're _here!_" James tried to interject but she stopped him. "No….don't tell me to calm down. Tell me when I'm allowed to give in to my fears and my anger. Tell me why I should sleep well with those men on _my _side of the wall."

Margaret turned on her heel and stomped into the house and barreled up the servants stair to the second floor. Skirting from one set of stairs to the other, she saw a gaggle of officers leaving the Lord General's office. Tavington's eyes met hers and she put her head down and moved faster, lest he realize she was distressed over the presence of the prisoners.

"Margaret." Margaret fisted her skirt in her hands and hiked them up so she could quicken her pace, attempting to sprint up the stairs. She had gotten half way up to the landing when she heard the Colonel's boots on the stairs behind her. She had almost reached the landing, but found her elbow grasped by her pursuer. For a brief moment, Margaret panicked, thinking that somehow the rebels had gotten out of the holding cell and had come for her. Shrieking, she pushed against her assailant and would have gone tumbling down the stairs if Tavington hadn't pushed her up against the wall of the stairwell.

"Quiet! Do you want the whole staff to hear you?" Margaret glared at Tavington and pushed against him, but he wouldn't move.

"Let me go Colonel!" She snapped, trying to lever him away from her and finding it impossible. "Or should I say General?" Disdain dripped from her voice and she glared up at the man pinning her to the wall.

"My my, we are feisty tonight." Tavington looked at the high color in her cheeks and the anger boiling in her eyes. "No promotion as yet. I take it that's why you're so angry?"

"That you're getting credit for my plan?"

"My plan. You merely planted the seeds."

"I planted the seeds, I should reap the crop." Margaret's hand itched to slap the man holding her captive in the narrow stairwell.

"And I watered, weeded and cultivated it until it came to fruition." Tavington said, happy to continue her analogy. "You're a woman, you should be glad your idea was even considered at all."

"Yes well obviously the men were too stupid to come up with it. And stupid enough to fall for it." Margaret shut her mouth quickly as Tavington's hands clenched on her arms where he still held them and his eyes seemed to turn a darker shade of blue, his anger increasing.

"I can see you're upset by something and I'll assume that's the reason you're short tempered this evening. But you had best curb that tongue of yours. I'll tolerate no more such outbursts from you." Margaret bit the inside of her cheek, curbing the desire to come back with a smart retort. "Now…what's troubling you?"

Margaret took a deep breath and released it slowly before she answered the Colonel.

"I was told you think those men who were captured have something to do with the men who kidnapped me last spring."

"Yes. I do." Tavington released his grip on her arms and stepped back onto the narrow landing, taking a moment to look down at where Margaret still slumped against the wall. "Have you seen them yet? Do you recognize them?"

"I haven't been near them." Margaret said quietly. She chafed at her arms, unsure if she was rubbing the burning feeling of the Colonel's hands away or trying to spread the warmth throughout her arms. "Has the Lord General decided on their fate?"

"Why do you care?"

"I want to know." Margaret shuddered and looked up at the Colonel. "I want to know what to expect now that the enemy is on my door step."

"You're afraid of them." Margaret shook her head for a moment before deciding it was useless to deny what had been building in her chest since James had told her that these rebels were affiliated with the ones that captured her. Slowly, she nodded. "Not just afraid…terrified."

"How would you feel if you'd been 'imprisoned for your own good' and then discover that your attackers are sleeping right outside your window." Margaret snapped. She heaved herself away from the wall and stepped onto the narrow landing with the Colonel. "That's how I feel right now….and I feel betrayed."

"Betrayed?" Tavington mocked. "How would you feel betrayed?"

"I trusted you…the dragoons—the army—to protect me. I trusted that the Lord General knew what was best by keeping me locked up here." She shook her head and snarled at Tavington. "I'm involved in this as much as anyone else. What did the Lord General decide their fate would be?"

"We shall hang those men until they tell us who their beloved leader is and where he's cowering. And in so doing, you will get justice."

"Your definition of justice is twisted." Margaret took a step up so she could look the Colonel squarely in the eye. "I want my freedom, not their incarceration. Besides, there weren't that many men involved in what happened to me. And I know what they look like. I could march down there, name my attackers…"

"But you won't because you're terrified." Tavington stepped up as well, using his shoulders to crowd Margaret against the wall again. "You reek of fear. And you'd never finger the guilty parties because it isn't in you. You want to believe in the good in everyone and it doesn't exist….you would let one of your abusers walk out the gate of this fort without saying a word because you'd rather turn the other cheek than admit to his blood being on your hands."

Margaret's hand seemed to fly of its own accord towards the Colonel's face, but he was faster and he caught her wrist in a tight grip. She hissed as he slammed her hand into the wall beside her head.

"Be careful, I could have you thrown into the stocks for striking an officer." Tavington whispered close to her ear. "Then you'd shut up about your precious _freedom." _Condescension dripped from his Cerulean gaze as he stared down at her. "You are of no use to me any longer."

"That's all that ever mattered, wasn't it? What is _of use_ to you." Tavington stepped in a fraction closer, his gaze threatening her into silence.

"Precisely. You can no longer lead my men through the swamps. You will never be able to spy for us ever again. You can't even be trusted outside the fort to forage." Tavington nodded his head toward the yard where the rebels were being held. "Now _they _on the other hand, have information I want. They either fight with The Ghost or in close enough proximity to him that they would know who he is."

"And you think they'll just tell you?"

"The garrison will build a gallows tomorrow. The Lord General decided to give them a few days to watch the construction and give them time to contemplate their fates. Then we will begin to hang them. One. By. One. Until one of them decides to talk." Tavington stepped back from her, releasing her wrist and granting her some space on the stairs. "And then I'll have what I want, as will you."

"And what is it you think I want?" Margaret asked as he stepped onto the landing and turned to go down the narrow staircase.

"_Freedom._" Tavington leaned onto the banister separating the two staircases. "You see, they'll be dead, and you'll be free of them."

"But if the men who attacked me aren't…"

"That's not my concern." Margaret watched the Colonel stomp the rest of the way down the stairs and disappear from sight.

* * *

Tavington stepped into the torchlight and mounted the horse the groom held for him. He did not wait for anyone but kneed his horse and guided it swiftly out the gate of the fort and towards his own camp.

In the darkness, the boisterous shouts of his victorious men drifting behind him, Tavington took the opportunity to think about the meeting that had just gone over with the Lord General's Staff. He had been truthful when he'd told Margaret that no promotion had been forth coming. In fact, even though the Lord General knew that Tavington had put the Trojan Horse plan forward, the commander of the infantry was taking, and getting, the bulk of the credit; for it was _the infantry_ that had taken the brunt of the casualties and done most of the work. Now, instead of interrogating the ruffians and finding where their hideaway was, Tavington and his men were being sent on a mission to guard the Lord General's newest shipment of personal effects from Middleton to the Fortress. As usual, the glory was being stripped away from him, bit by bit, and being doled out to everyone around him. Even Margaret had demanded her pound of flesh, going so far as to demand that she get the credit for the idea, that she should get whatever rewards came from the capture. What she had no way of knowing was that there were no rewards to be had. He had snapped at her, accusing her of fear and after that fact he'd seen it clearly dancing in her eyes. For a moment, he put himself in her shoes and realized that he'd essentially put a viper in her prison cell. Of course she was frightened. She'd left Fort Carolina only once since she'd been rescued from what the rebels had done to her, and he had just left those same rebels, or at least their cohorts, on her doorstep. Guilt weighed down on him for a moment before he forcefully shoved it away. He'd been down that path already and he was quite guilty for starting this ordeal for Margaret. But he would accept no more, nor would he allow it to weigh him down. She was just as guilty as he was, for though he had accepted her into the ranks of the dragoons, she had volunteered.

_Anything happening after that was her own fault. _

Given the circumstances he was doing the best he could in bringing her justice for the vile acts committed against her. If she was too weak or soft hearted to accept it, then that was her fault as well.

He couldn't let it weigh him down. He had a job to do, and the faster he accomplished it, the faster he could return and get the answers he needed.


	19. Facing Fears

Margaret tapped a pencil against the pages of the plant guide she was working on, rapping out a steady rhythm into the silence of the room. The candle light cast long shadows across the wall as her pencil arced back and forth. Suddenly she slammed the pencil down and walked the length of the small room before turning back and coming to stand beside the small window. She looked down on the dark little holding cell where the rebels were being confined and sighed as she contemplated the conversation she'd had with the Colonel.

"_You would let one of your abusers walk out the gate of this fort without saying a word because you'd rather turn the other cheek than admit to his blood being on your hands."_ Margaret felt the tightness return to her chest as she thought of the faces of the men who had kidnapped her. She thought back to the tribunal.

_Justice._

That's what it all came down to. But what was justice, and who decided that? The Colonel believed that Justice could only be attained by taking an eye for an eye….or a pound of flesh for an eye. Truth be told, the more Margaret thought about what had happened to her, the more she thought justice _had_ been served. She had never intended to take sides in this conflict that was tearing the country apart. She felt no loyalty to the English and was unsure what a new government independent of the King would entail for her. Would life be so very different? She certainly didn't think so.

Margaret gazed down as the men sat in small groups within the cell talking, their breath clouding in the early autumn night air. If 'justice' was to be done, she was certain it had already been served. _She _had spied on the rebels, without any provocation, except the goading of Colonel Tavington. _She _had passed information to the dragoons, and in spite of what the Colonel said, she already had blood on her hands—that of the men who had been hung at the inn; the very ones whose deaths had gotten her so soundly beaten and then held within the fort all summer. As far as she knew, the men down below had done nothing to her. And she never would know until she went down and looked every single one of them in their eyes.

* * *

Margaret spent the next day watching as the garrison began the process of building the gallows that would end the lives of the rebel thieves. She saw the red coated infantrymen taunt the drably clad men in the small cell and felt waves of pity start to crash around her. While she and the other women hung sheets out to dry, she constantly glanced at the cage of prisoners, trying to pick out even one that might have been involved in her ordeal. She wasn't sure what she'd do if she saw one, but it was a step. She noticed that two of the prisoners seemed young, barely more than boys. They'd probably joined up for the promise of adventure or perhaps the need to defend their town. The men she remembered from the swamps were all old, and rough. The boys, as well as several other men held in the cage were well dressed and soft looking, hardly the sort to go out gathering up snakes or beating women. In fact, there seemed to be a ragtag mix of men within the little pen; half of them the rough men of the swamps and the other half looking more like gently bred merchants.

Margaret stepped outside in the fading light of early evening and tossed the dirty water from a skillet out towards her garden. As she strolled back towards the kitchen she saw the rebels conversing amongst each other and watched as they moved about in small groups. She watched as a small group broke up and an older gentleman moved towards another small group. Margaret was surprised to see him wearing the collar of a priest.

_A priest. Someone educated and prepared to give advice. _

Margaret squared her shoulders as she went back into the kitchen. She would talk to the priest, something she hadn't done in years, and ask for guidance. But she couldn't do it in broad daylight. There were still those in the fort who believed that Margaret had committed a crime against the army and that was the reason for her incarceration. If she was caught speaking with the rebels, she had no doubt that the speculation and suspicion would run rampant in the tiny community of the fort. Margaret dressed in the darkest clothing she had; a dark blue petticoat and a navy bodice with sleeves attached over a homespun blouse. She pinned her hair into a loose knot before knotting a dark colored kerchief around her neck and then covered her head with the gray scarf she'd spent most of the early summer wearing. With that complete, she swung a dark gray cloak over her shoulders and slipped out her door and quietly down the back stairs of the house.

She stood in the darkened back doorway and watched the men on the rampart move from guard tower to guard tower. She would only have a few moments to dart from the door out into the night without being seen. She pulled the hood of the cloak up over her head, in spite of the scarf already covering her hair, and pulled the kerchief up over the lower portion of her face. Feeling like a shadow, Margaret waited until the guards turned their backs towards the kitchen door and then slipped silently across the yard to the wall of the fortress, taking up a position beside the garden close to the stockade wall.

Margaret slipped from shadow to shadow, avoiding the pools of torchlight that filtered down from the stockade. She dashed the last few feet to the corner of the jail and looked through the bars for the priest. None of the men were sleeping. Not only was it too cold, but their minds were surely turning over their impending fates.

"Pssst." Margaret hissed, but none of the men acknowledged her. "Hey!" She dared a bit louder as she tugged the kerchief from her mouth. One of the men slowly turned to face where she was crouching beside the building the jail was attached to.

"Jesus…" The man crossed himself as he took in what he perceived as a disembodied head. "What do you want, spirit?"

"I'm no spirit." Margaret whispered back. "I want to speak with the reverend."

"The reverend?" The man glanced at his comrade standing white faced beside him. "What makes you think one of us is a reverend?"

"He's wearing a collar." Margaret's feet suddenly grew cold. What if the man with the collar was a man of no scruples who would wear a priest's collar when he hadn't made a pledge to God?

"She's smarter'n you, that's fer sure." A man leaning against the side of the cage muttered. "Go get the reverend."

The first man walked over and nudged the reverend and motioned towards where Margaret crouched in the shadows. He came towards the corner where the cage joined the outbuilding and watched as Margaret pulled the kerchief away from her face. He started a moment and then knelt before her. The other men shifted without a word and moved away, giving the reverend and Margaret some semblance of privacy. They'd been around him long enough to understand the sanctity of conversations between the reverend, people coming to him for solace and advice, and God. The Reverend cleared his throat and waited until the other men were clustered farther away from where he crouched in front of Margaret before he dared speak.

"Yes child? What can I do for you?" Margaret recognized his voice, and an icy tremor ran down her spine.

_Then you aren't even a little repentant? _

She would recognize that voice anywhere and she almost ran from the place but forced herself to remain where she was in spite of the ice water that seemed to stream across her shoulder blades and trickle down her spine. She couldn't be afraid anymore. She needed to speak to this man; she had to find out what he knew. She had to confront him and she had to go through with what she'd come here to do.

"You were there…." Margaret whispered tamping down the fear bubbling up within her chest.

"Beg pardon?" Margaret pushed her hood off her head and peeled the scarf away from her hair never once taking her eyes from his face, daring him to deny that he knew her. "Oh no…oh Dear Lord, what happened?" The man looked over her face, lighting on the scar. Genuine concern danced in his eyes and Margaret's resolve faltered. "You…"

"Tell me….are you even a little repentant?" Margaret snarled, her fear suddenly being burned away by anger. Emotions pulsed over her like waves buffering a shoreline. Fear, Anger, Frustration, sadness—all of them slamming into and through her.

"Oh my dear." The man's eyes watered dully in the faint light coming from their surroundings. "Child, you can't mean…"

"I mean that you are the ones that did this to me!" Margaret spat.

"I pressed for forgiveness. You were doing what you believed to be right…just as we believe we are doing right."

"Save your sermon," Margaret snapped, waving a hand to silence the man in front of her. "I gained no forgiveness for my perceived crimes. I did not repent. The men in your unit did this to me. Beat me, stripped me of my dress, tied me up in a boat with snakes." Margaret's voice rose to a higher pitch as she recounted what had happened to her. But even as she accused the reverend with each of the crimes she thought he had been a part of committing against her, she saw the man pale.

"Good heavens…." He swallowed visibly, eyes wide as Margaret grasped the bars separating them.

"You didn't know."

"No. Colonel…our Colonel gave you over to the men whose friends were killed at the inn last summer. They informed the Colonel of their intent, but as a whole, we were none the wiser. We never knew." The Reverend reached through the bars for her and she pulled away. "Please…forgiveness is…"

"Forgiveness is long gone." Margaret sliced the air angrily with her hand, glaring at the man on the opposite side of the bars. "I've been trapped here since the day they found me. _Rescued _me. I've been a prisoner, because of what _your comrades _did to me. I've been afraid and I've been frustrated." Margaret paused. "But I don't want to be afraid anymore. I want to go on _living. _I want…"

Margaret paused in her tirade because she _didn't _know what she wanted. She wanted her freedom from the terrible little fort on the hill and she wanted the war to end. She wanted the world to right itself. But none of those things were going to be granted by this man in captivity.

"What is it you want?" The reverend pressed, unaware of the tumult churning inside of her.

"I want what you cannot grant me." She finally said. "I want my freedom."

"So do we." The reverend sighed. "We are not so different."

Margaret bristled at that and then realized the reverend had a point. She wanted freedom as much as they did. They had been captured and dragged to the fort against their will, and though she had been brought to the fort with the intent of rescue, she was unable to leave, and it certainly hadn't been her will to be brought to the fort without the prospect of ever leaving again.

"I suppose you're right." Margaret whispered into the darkness.

"May I ask you something?" The reverend grasped the bars, angling to get a better view of where Margaret crouched before him. Margaret adjusted her own position, her legs cramping painfully, and nodded. "Why the dragoons? Why do you help them?"

Margaret didn't answer immediately. She mulled over the events of the summer before and heaved a sigh before responding.

"Freedom." She laughed. "That's what it all boils down to, isn't it? Always freedom." And Margaret suddenly found herself telling the reverend of how her marriage had trapped her into one bad situation and then how the care of her mothers' children had trapped her into a stifling life that she felt compelled to buck. "It was twofold I suppose." Margaret finally said. "I had to help John, and the children; but I would also be free to go adventuring….and I'd be _useful_ as something more than a surrogate mother."

"Do you…not _want _children?" The reverend asked slowly.

"I suppose someday I do. A child of my own. But not in this….not in a world being torn asunder by warring factions." Margaret's mind was suddenly filled with images of children and a house of her own and of comfort. "But that day is not today. Nor is it any time soon."

The two of them sat together in the silence of the fort, until they were both jarred by the calling of the watch.

"Is there something particular you wished to speak to me about?" The reverend whispered. "I fear we will both get in a great deal of trouble if you are seen speaking with us. You at least have _some _chance at clemency."

"I'm not sure what I wanted." Margaret answered honestly. "Someone said I'd let my abusers go without confronting them. I wanted to see if any of them were here, and when I saw you, I thought you might be able to guide my thoughts, as a priest." She shook her head before she brought her gaze back to the Reverend's. "Considering you sat in judgement over me and allowed me to be sentenced to this, you're no long qualified to give advice."

"I did not participate in the abuse you received. And I am appalled that it even happened." The reverend said honestly. "But I can tell you that we are all fighting for our freedom. We are not all so different and need to be willing to grant forgiveness whenever we are able, for as you said, these are dark times indeed."

Margaret sat silently for a moment before she raised her eyes to the reverend. "I'm not sure I'm ready to grant the forgiveness you preach so easily. But I do believe in your innocence. I'm sorry it has come to this."

"As am I." The reverend shifted and looked up at Margaret as she rose, tugging her scarves and hoods back into place to blend in with the shadows. "Goodbye Miss."

"Goodbye Reverend." And with those muffled words, Margaret disappeared from the cage and raced back to her room.

* * *

Margaret awoke the next morning to clear skies and the continuing sound of the gallows being built. The infantrymen had decided that building a single tree to hang men from was inefficient and that even if they hung the men one at a time, having the noose tied about the neck of the next man, and having him stand beside his fellows as their lives came to a quick and sudden end would be better incentive for him to talk. And so, the gallows were equipped to hang three men. Margaret stood behind the house and watched as the contraption was tested with sacks of sand, the sound of the trap doors falling ringing through the fort. Margaret pulled her eyes from the gallows and looked at the men move uneasily within the cage. Death hung like a shadow over them and she saw many of them move towards the reverend, who seemed to be offering words of comfort or last rights. As if sensing that he was being watched, the reverend cast his eyes around the fortress and finally saw Margaret skulking at the side of the house. He nodded, an almost imperceptible move, and Margaret felt the need to move away, lest his sad, weary eyes shake her resolve to hate him.

Margaret was working in her room, folding clothes and tidying her space so that she could spend the rest of the day working on her guide book. The sun shone into her small room and combined with the heat pouring out of fire places in other rooms, Margaret's room began to feel stifling. Happy to enjoy the little bit of Indian summer they seemed to be blessed with, Margaret pushed open her small window and leaned out to breathe deeply of the fresh air. Autumn was coming quickly and the air smelled crisply of falling leaves and of the impending harvest. Looking out over the country side she saw a man riding over a distant ridge bearing a white banner. A shout was raised from the watchtowers around the fortress as the sentries caught sight of the man as well.

Margaret waited and watched as the gates of the fort swung open and the man was greeted by an aide in the courtyard. From Margaret's vantage point she could see everything happening, the man dismounting and glancing towards the prisoners, the prisoners moving to press their faces to the bars and watch him as the man and two massive dogs moved across the courtyard towards the house. He glanced up towards where she still leaned across the sill and Margaret's heart nearly froze.

_The Ghost. _

This was the man who had given her over to the rebels to punish. This was the man who had sat front and center during the tribunal and deemed her to be guilty. Margaret almost hit her head on the window as she came back inside. She raced down the stairs and cowered on a landing to watch as General O'Hara escorted the man into the office used by the Lord General.

"Wait here." She heard O'Hara say to the man, before he left the room and shut the doors. Margaret came skirting down the steps and approached the man striding slowly and purposefully up the hall.

"General O'Hara?" The man barely granted her a glance. "What is that man doing here?"

"That's none of your concern."

"That man is the commander of the men down in that cage." Margaret tried to get in front of the stiff General as he moved into another set of rooms. "He's here to negotiate their release, isn't he?"

"Miss, that's none of your concern." O'Hara turned and slammed the door in Margaret's face. She cursed under her breath. She raced back upstairs and wrote a quick note, not even bothering to sand the message or put it in an envelope. She folded the paper over twice and went out to the stables to find a messenger to take a message to Tavington.

"Royal Dragoons, miss?" The groom asked as he brushed down one of the horses. "They've gone off towards Middleton, meeting up with a supply train. They should be back this afternoon."

Margaret's mind raced as she thought of the implications of this. Colonel Tavington had been struggling to capture the Ghost for a year. Now the man was inside Fort Carolina, practically offering himself up on a silver platter and the Colonel was nowhere near the Fortress. And what would the Lord General do? Would he negotiate surrender of traitors and thieves to appease this Colonial Colonel? What did the Ghost have to offer the Lord General to give up the prisoners?

Staring at the house Margaret knew what she would have to do. The only thing for it was to spy on the Lord General and gather information for the Colonel.

* * *

_Author's Note:_ _This chapter has been a royal pain to get through. What a speed bump! Thanks for bearing with me and the long stretches of not posting. I was trying to stretch postings until I could get this monster out of the way, all while moving and working what has essentially become a construction job that has sucked my soul along with any energy I had at the end of the day. A big thanks goes to the coffee goddess at Starbucks for fueling the fire to get me through this. On a brighter note, the next chapter is already done and it's only a matter of pushing through the last few chapters to finish this beastie off. I can only foresee one more speed bump, but long walks on my off days have been helping me work through the kinks and getting it worked out._

_Please review and I do hope you enjoy this story as much as I've enjoyed playing in the sandbox with the characters of "The Patriot."_


	20. Fools

By the time Margaret returned to the house, the Lord General and the Ghost were cloistered together. Margaret silently cursed as she saw the young aide standing to attention outside the door. Margaret tugged a dust rag from her pocket and began to idly tidy the windows in the hallway. She had to get the boy away from the door, but aides of the Lord General were notorious for standing at their posts come hell or high water. Finally Margaret seized upon an idea and hoped to goodness that it would work.

"Are you alright?" Margaret asked the young Aide suddenly. The boy looked at Margaret oddly, seeming to notice her for the first time.

"Ma'am?"

"I asked if you were alright." Margaret tucked her rag back in her apron string and walked towards the boy. "You look a little pale."

"Right as rain miss." The boy smiled tightly and stared off into space once more. Margaret could have stomped her foot; the boy would be stubborn, but she'd seen fear dance in his eyes. She stood before him and reached up to touch his brow.

"Tsk! You're near burning up!" Margaret gasped. "Have you been to see the surgeon of late?"

"No miss…"

"You should! You've a fever and your eyes…!" Margaret stepped back and pulled the rag from her apron strings to hold over her nose.

"Ma'am?" The boy suddenly looked stricken and Margaret felt bad for leading him astray.

"You ought to go see him, I'm sure that we've caught it soon enough you'll be fine."

"But the door…..the Lord General…."

"You'll be no use to the Lord General if the sickness gets you." Margaret snapped. "Run along!"

The boy did as he was told, so afraid of disease that the slightest suggestion that he might be ill was enough to send him running for the surgeon. Margaret smiled as she saw the boy race to leave the hallway and heard the lower door slam. She pressed her ear to the door and listened intently.

"Then eighteen of your men will have to die." Margaret furrowed her brow, she heard the Lord General's voice, low and indistinct ask a question. The Ghost—she knew it was the ghost because she recognized the voice from the tribunal—answered the lord general, but she could not hear much. They had moved too far from the door. She had been correct in her assumption that the Ghost had come to negotiate the release of his own men. How he'd managed to gather the same number of Birtish officers was beyond her though and she struggled to hear what would come next.

"General O'Hara, arrange the exchange." She heard footsteps and she quickly moved away from the door as if she were merely trying to dust and tidy and hadn't just been spying. She looked up as the door pushed open and General O'Hara emerged followed by the Colonial Colonel that the entire British Army knew as the Ghost. The Ghost hesitated in the doorway and motioned for something to remain where it was, Margaret assumed it was a dog since she heard something whine and then claws clatter against the floor. She stood straight and watched as The Ghost turned back to the hallway, he started as he saw her standing in front of a window. Margaret took two slow steps toward the Colonial Colonel.

"There's no fire to protect you here." She said slowly. "Now I know your face as you no doubt know mine."

The man's eyes snapped across her features, his gaze falling, as most peoples did, on the scar crossing her cheek.

"You have me mistaken for someone else."

"No." Margaret shook her head. "And even if I didn't know your voice, the reverend already confirmed that he knew me—remembered that farce of a trial."

General O'Hara remained at the top of the stairs and watched the exchange silently. He only looked away when the aide returned and issued swift orders for the lad to return to the yard and turn out the garrison for a prisoner exchange.

"Good Day, Miss St. Claire." The Ghost responded softly while General O'Hara's back was turned, and he nodded at her before he followed the General down the stairs and outside. Margaret fumed in the hall for but a moment before she raced after the two men. She stood atop the stairs and watched, anger boiling within her as General O'Hara walked beside the Ghost and made to conduct the prisoner exchange. Margaret watched as the gates opened and Colonel Tavington and Borden galloped into the yard, looking about at the crisp formation that greeted them. General O'Hara stood in the midst of the infantrymen and shouted for the prisoners to be released. Tavington dismounted quickly, his eyes hardly daring to leave the Colonial Colonel as the prisoners he'd worked so hard to capture left their incarceration and raced for the gate of the fortress and the horses that had been brought up by their comrades for their use. Margaret came down the stairs as the Colonel and General O'Hara exchanged quick words. Suddenly Colonel Tavington wheeled and drew his saber, advancing on the colonial.

"Stay that sword Colonel!" O'Hara shouted at Tavington. "He rode in under a white flag for a formal parlay."

Tavington turned back to the General, his eyes momentarily lighting on Margaret where she stood stiff shouldered and angry. She glanced at the Ghost and then brought her gaze back to Tavington before brushing her scar. Tavington ground his teeth as he turned back to the Lord General and muttered something that Margaret could not hear. Tavington glared towards Margaret again before he advanced on the Ghost.

"You! So you're the ghost are you? I remember you—that farm—that stupid little boy!" Margaret shifted uneasily, not understanding what was going on between the two Colonels. She saw the Ghost pause at the sally port and then the man turned to face the angry blue eyed Englishman advancing on him. "Did he die? Hmm?"

Margaret gasped, suddenly putting together puzzle pieces she hadn't known she'd been missing. The Colonel held a vendetta against The Ghost simply for his evasiveness and for how this colonial made the dragoons and the army as a whole look a fool. The Ghost had a personal vendetta against the Colonel though for the death of his son. And by the sounds of it, the boy was rather young. Margaret watched as the two men stood toe to toe with one another muttering softly back and forth, too quiet for her to hear beyond the line of infantrymen. Suddenly the Ghost turned away from the Colonel, as if it took some effort to walk away and then he swiftly mounted his horse. The men put two fingers in his mouth and let loose a sharp, high pitched whistle before moving with his men away from the fortress. Before Margaret could fully react, two large dogs came barreling out of the house and nearly knocked her to the ground before they slipped from the fort as the gates were slowly pushed shut. There was much shouting and the issuing of orders as General O'Hara organized a party of men to go out and retrieve the captured Englishmen.

"Scout!" Margaret turned and watched as the Colonel bore down on her, angrily grasping her by the arm and sweeping her around the side of the house, out of the press of infantry. He shoved her roughly against the wall of the house and then glared down at her. "What do you know?"

"Good to see you too, Colonel." Margaret rubbed at her sore arm as she glared up at the angry dragoon in front of her. "Pleasant afternoon?"

"Enough!" Margaret held her tongue and glared back. "What do you know? Please tell me you aren't completely worthless."

"I'm not. I'm rather more intelligent than_ anyone _seems to give me credit for." Margaret punched a finger into the Colonel's chest, her own anger escalating. "_You _said I wouldn't confront those men, and I did. You said I was worthless and of no use to you….apparently the status quo has changed."

"I'm waiting." The Colonel glanced from where her finger still punched into his chest and waited for her to tell him all that had happened. Quickly she told of going to the cage and speaking to the reverend, who had in fact been at the tribunal. She told of how she saw the Ghost enter the fort she'd tried to intervene with General O'Hara and how the man had rebuffed her.

"He's the man who did _this_ to me." Margaret flashed angrily. "And somehow, after that performance I just witnessed at the Sally Port I get the distinct idea that I was forced to pay for sins _you _committed against _him."_ She shoved angrily at the Colonel.

"You might be correct, but you were not wholly innocent yourself." The Colonel crowded her against the wall of the house. "You were a spy…you're lucky you came off as lightly as you did."

Margaret watched as the Colonel stomped away and heard him shout for Borden to follow him up into the house to meet with the Lord General.

* * *

Margaret pulled angrily at weeds in the garden, trying desperately to alleviate the anger she felt bubbling up in her chest at what had occurred that afternoon. Once again her world had been turned on edge. She had much to think about and much to take into consideration regarding some of the decisions she'd made over the past year. She knew Tavington had left long ago, but that did not help to alleviate the anger she felt. Mostly because she didn't know where it should be placed.

She had gone with the dragoons knowing full and well that Colonel Tavington was a man to be feared and that he had come by the nickname of "The Butcher" rather honestly, but she never thought that it would have anything to do with civilians. Certainly he was known for decimating the colonial troops on the battlefield, but killing civilians? Children? Margaret had to sit back on her heels and push at a stray bit of hair that had swept across her forehead. The more she thought about it the more she realized that Colonel Tavington was more than willing to do harm to civilians. He'd been willing to harm her family the night she joined them. Why did she believe that those threats were idle? And if The Butcher were willing to kill civilian children, then what had happened to her hadn't come close to leveling the score. Margaret had not been punished for the Colonel's actions….merely for her own in spying, and as Colonel Tavington said, she'd gotten off easy.

A commotion at the gate drew Margaret's attention and she stood to see the return of the British captives. She was surprised to see the infantry return, eighteen of them carrying scarecrows dressed as British soldiers.

_Duped!_

It was all Margaret could do to keep from laughing. Not only had the Ghost gotten his men back, but he'd taken the Lord General's dogs back as well; and for what?

The Lord General had exchanged eighteen men and let the Ghost walk away from his headquarters in return for a bit of straw and sticks. Margaret dashed around the corner of the house and raced for the stables, where several of the men were dropping their burdens unceremoniously. She found a groom inside laughing with his friends.

"The dragoons are back. Can you take a message to Colonel Tavington now?" Margaret asked the young man as he picked up a hat that had tumbled from one of the scarecrow officers.

"Certainly Miss. What's the message."

"Tell him the Lord General was duped. Tell him about this." Margaret didn't wait to watch the man mount up and leave, she knew he would do it since he owed her a favor for helping him through the stomach flux that had afflicted him the month before. She took up one of the scarecrows and carried it behind the house and hid it beneath the lean-to in an effort to preserve the evidence of what had occurred.

Less than half an hour had gone by when the Colonel came galloping through the Fortress gates again. Margaret met him in the yard and gestured for him to follow her behind the house. Just as she had predicted, once the Lord General had seen how he'd been duped, he'd ordered the destruction of the scarecrows. The one Margaret had saved was the only one to survive.

"What is it I'm looking at?" Colonel Tavington asked as she propped the thing against the house.

"You're looking at what the Lord General purchased with the release of those men." Margaret responded. "Eighteen such scarecrows for the release of the Ghost's men…and for allowing that man to walk out of here out of respect for the white flag."

"You must be joking." Tavington poked at the overstuffed uniform.

"Certainly, I'd call you up from the camp for a lark." Margaret responded, sarcasm dripping from her voice momentarily. "I'm still angry at you, but I'm more angry that everyone else is granted clemency and I'm forced to serve out an indefinite sentence for being attacked."

"What did you hope to get out of this? I'm certain I'd hear of it sooner or later."

"I doubt it. The only ones that know have been sworn to secrecy, and the other seventeen of the straw officers have been destroyed."

"You know of it, and here you stand divulging everything to me."

"No one knows I know of them so I'm the only one NOT made to swear to keep it quiet. Half the fort could have heard the Lord General ranting and railing at the infantry officers that were present when General O'Hara brought one up to his office." Margaret smirked. "Not very smart of O'Hara to bring this up before witnesses."

"No indeed." Tavington turned to face her. "I see that spying is second nature for you."

"Old habits die hard." Margaret smirked. "Information can be worth more than gold at times."

"And what do you want in return for this information?" The Colonel glanced at her from the corner of his eye, pretending to focus on the straw man, studying it and trying to figure out what he himself was going to do with what he was looking at.

"I want my freedom." Margaret said. "I have every reason to believe that the Lord General is going to want the Ghost hunted down and punished for this."

"He's not just going to let you go wandering free."

"No, but you'll ask for me to be returned to the ranks of the dragoons. You'll need a guide through the dark places of the swamps."

"What makes you think we won't be able to maneuver without you?"

"You think I'm foolish enough to have divulged _all _of the secret trails of the swamp?" Margaret asked as she turned and stood at the Colonel's shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he gazed down on her. "I've given you an opportunity to formulate your own plan before the Lord General calls upon you. You'll have time to come up with your own demands to ask of the Lord General while sneaking mine in amongst them."

"And what if I should choose not to ask for your release?" Tavington asked glaring down at her.

"You'll blunder through the swamps and I shall never again pass you information from the Headquarters of the Lord General. Do we have an accord?"

"You've become a sharp little harpy." The Colonel whispered, a certain softness touching his eyes as he stared down into Margaret's own hard gaze. "Very well. We have an accord." He held out his hand and Margaret placed her own into it, prepared to seal their agreement as she'd seen many a trader do. Tavington grasped her hand and gently brought her knuckles to his lips sealing their agreement rather his own way. She made to pull her hand away but he clamped down on it, crushing her fingers in his stronger grasp. "Let me warn you now though, if you ever again withhold information from me, I will see you punished far worse than the rebels or the Lord General could ever conjure. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

Margaret watched as the Colonel turned and the little stable boy raced around the corner of the house. "Colonel! The Lord General is wanting to see you."

"Rather clairvoyant." The Colonel muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Margaret. "Help Miss St. Clair dismantle that thing before someone sees it." He'd reached the corner of the house when Margaret shouted at him.

"My freedom Colonel!"

"Dismantle that thing, Miss St. Clair, or you'll have less freedom than you do now."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for bearing with me. This slowed down more than I wanted it to based solely on my schedule of working as a snow maker. Twelve hour shifts five days a week doesn't leave much time to fit grocery shopping, laundry, and general tidying in much less writing. I think I'm finally getting over the speed bumps and should be able to turn out chapters faster in the coming weeks. Reviews and suggestions/criticisms are always welcome, especially after long days of playing in the snow._


	21. Once More Unto the Breach

Margaret and the stable boy dismantled the dummy quickly, spreading the straw amongst the rows of the garden to protect some of the plants from frost. As she stepped into the dark kitchen she saw Molly preparing to bring a platter upstairs.

"Whose dinner is that?" Margaret asked casually. Her heart hadn't stopped hammering since the Ghost had arrived that afternoon. She felt certain it would burst from her chest, especially now that her incarceration's end was nearly in sight.

"The Lord General's." Molly answered, struggling to balance the large tray.

"I'll take it up." Margaret crossed the kitchen quickly and took the large tray from Molly. "I've been next to no help today. You relax and enjoy your own supper."

"You've hardly had a bite to eat today." Constance said from where she stood near the fire. "You plan on standing up d'ere t'rough de Lord General's whole meal hungry?"

"I'm not very hungry." Margaret said as she ascended the stair. "I'm too excited to think about food."

Margaret scratched at the Lord General's door with her foot and waited for his aide to come and answer it. Margaret followed the man inside and set the big tray down on the table and then went to stand in a corner, waiting to take the tray downstairs. The Lord General sat down to his meal silently and did not even glance in her direction, for which she was grateful. The man might recognize her and turn her from the room, especially if Colonel Tavington asked for her freedom. The Lord General was half way through his meal when Colonel Tavington arrived at the doorway.

"You sent for me, my lord?" Margaret had to stifle a grin as Tavington's eyes settled on her. Obviously the Colonel thought it imprudent to come directly to the Lord General's rooms. He'd pretended that the messenger had to go all the way to the dragoon camp and then return to the fort before he graced the General with his presence. _He's never been short on cleverness._ Margaret thought as Tavington deliberately turned away from her.

"Yes, I sent for you." The Lord General cut angrily into the meat on his plate, focusing on the meal before him. "My reputation suffers because of your incompetence. That man insults me!"

"Quite impressive for a farmer with a pitchfork, wouldn't you say?" Tavington answered. Margaret very nearly rolled her eyes. Why would the Colonel goad the Lord General when the man was more furious than she'd yet seen him? The Lord General signaled for Tavington to approach and when he had, the Lord General made his demands known.

"I want you to find that man. I want you to capture him." He said slowly and sternly. Margaret watched as Tavington arrogantly began moving about the room. He understood that to make a request first, the Lord General was offering up whatever it would take to see his demands met. Suddenly the war as a whole was set to the back burner while the entirety of the high command focused on the man known as the Ghost.

"The man has the loyalty of the people. They protect him, they protect his family. They protect the families of his men. I can capture him. But to do so requires the use of tactics that are…what was the word your lordship used? Brutal." Margaret cast a warning glance toward Tavington who steadfastly ignored her.

"Go on."

"I am prepared to do what is necessary. I alone will assume the full mantle of responsibility for my actions. Free of the chain of command; rendering you blameless." Margaret watched Tavington's slow progress across the room and could practically hear the man's mind hard at work, sketching out the foundation for his own demands to be met. Icy fingers slipped up and down her spine and grasped at her heart. _What have I done? _Margaret thought. The blinders were gone. She'd handed her future over to The Butcher…a man willing to kill children to get his way. "However, if I do this, you and I both know I can never return to England with honor. What, I wonder, is to become of me?" Margaret tried to steady her breathing as she watched the Lord General gesture for his valet to leave and then slowly leave his seat, approaching a table covered in rolled maps and other detritus of command. He glanced briefly at the Colonel before he pushed one of the maps gently open, glancing at the painted lines and colored tracts of land.

"When this war is over here in the colonies the new aristocracy will be land owners." The Lord General slowly explained. From the look on Tavington's face, Margaret could tell that this was not in fact news to him.

"Tell me about Ohio." Tavington drawled. Margaret stood by listening as the Lord General outlined the size of the parcel of land he was to be deeded at wars' end and what sorts of resources were available on it. He spoke of virgin land, waiting to be sold off to loyal colonists and of land so fertile seeds would sprout the minute they touched the soil. He spoke of streams, choking with fish and of the game that roamed free. It sounded like heaven.

"I'm prepared to give over part of this land, to make you a part owner in the colony." Cornwallis said. "When we win the war, I will be deeded 100,000 acres of land. In return for capturing The Ghost, you shall have 40,000 acres."

"Sixty Thousand." Tavington cut in. Margaret's chest, already tight with anxiety, tightened further. If he was going to negotiate for land and his own advancement what would he care for Margaret's freedom? Why would he care at all if he was so deep in the Lord General's pocket? "Come now my Lord…it isn't as if you don't have properties upon which to collect in England; while I, in comparison, have virtually nothing, and will have nothing which to return to. You can't tell me you mean to control sixty thousand acres from abroad. You'd merely be facing the same problem His Majesty is facing."

"You are treading very unstable ground Colonel." Cornwallis warned. "Forty Five Thousand Acres."

"Fifty Thousand Acres." Tavington countered. Cornwallis suddenly glanced up and caught site of Margaret standing in the corner. She hadn't left when his aide had.

"Miss St. Claire, isn't it?"

"Yes sir." Margaret dipped a hasty curtsy, quickly looking down at the hem of her skirt, pretending to be docile.

"Forty Thousand Acres and you can have your spy back." The Lord General responded slyly. "I have no doubt that you will be asking for her release anyway."

"She would be helpful in finding and rooting out the locals." Tavington conceded, admiring Margaret's performance of servitude. "But…"

"Forty-Five Thousand Acres and your spy, Colonel. What say you?"

"I say we have an accord." Margaret's eyes snapped back and forth between the two men and she finally let her gaze linger on Colonel Tavington. He'd let the Lord General think her freedom was his own idea…he'd up bid the Lord General in acreage until Cornwallis felt compelled to offer something in return to keep acreage for himself. Once again Margaret was amazed at the cleverness of the Colonel of the Dragoons. Margaret watched as the two men shook hands and then turned to face her.

"Well?" Tavington finally asked. "Are you going to stand there all day waiting for a signed pardon from the king or are you going to go fetch your things?'

Margaret fairly leapt from her skin as she made for the door. She stopped suddenly at the door and turned back.

"No time constraints?"

"Five minutes." Tavington's eyes sparkled happily as Margaret practically sprinted out the door and up to her room.

It took Margaret no time at all to gather what she would need out in the camps to survive the early winter months. Just as she had done the summer before, Margaret doubled her petticoats beneath what she already wore and scrounged through her small trunk for anything else she might need. She'd ask one of the stable boys to bring her trunk down to the camps at a later time, or perhaps one of the dragoons might be willing to bring it to her. She stopped a moment and looked at her hands which shook with her excitement. Rifling through the few other articles in the trunk, she grabbed a pair of wool mitts she'd knit and stuffed a scarf and a shawl into her satchel as well. The last thing she stuffed in her satchel before donning her cloak was the book she'd been working on for doctor Frasier. Margaret raced down the back stairs, her cloak swirling at every turn and her layered skirts threatening to trip her at every step. Margaret skidded down the last few steps into the kitchen to the consternation of the women gathered there eating a quiet supper.

"What is it?" Constance asked, rising from her spot at the table.

"I'm free!" Margaret smiled as she ducked into the still room and began taking down some of the herbs she'd set aside over the summer. "I'm going back to the dragoons."

"But how?" Molly stared as Margaret continued to stuff things into her bag.

"Colonel Tavington struck a bargain with his Lordship." Margaret looked breathlessly around the kitchen and then at the women with whom she'd worked all summer. "I don't have long. Colonel Tavington is leaving soon."

"Go den." Constance smiled, knowing how much leaving the fort would mean to Margaret. "You stay safe now."

"I will. Thank You." Margaret looked at the shocked faces staring at her and could have grinned. This parting was so different from the one she'd experienced at the Miller farm.

"But the fall harvest…your share of the vegetables?" One of the women asked as Margaret approached the door.

"I was only given five minutes to pack my things. I've left my trunk with the intention of having someone bring it to me later." Margaret paused at the door with her hand on the handle. "I'll send a list of what's needed at the Dragoon camp and whatever extra there is you all my split amongst yourselves."

With those parting words, Margaret pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool early evening air.

Colonel Tavington stood beside his big black and watched as Margaret raced across the yard, her skirts fisted in her hands as she raced for the sally port.

"No need to run. Have a sense of decency, would you?"

"My apologies Colonel." Margaret slowed to a walk and hitched her satchel higher on her shoulder, tucking the folds of her cloak around her and smoothing them down as she approached the place where the colonel stood. "I wanted to be sure to get here in time."

"Since when has that ever concerned you?"

"Since this time my freedom is at stake and I want out of this fort more than anything right now."

Margaret watched as the Colonel mounted his big black.

"Unfortunately there are no spare horses for you to use." Tavington said, calming the beast beneath him. "You'll have to ride double."

Margaret waited as he leaned down and offered her his hand and she quickly scrambled up behind him. She took one moment to swing her cloak over her legs as the Colonel turned the horse towards the gate.

"Ready?"

"The faster we get out of here, the better." Margaret muttered as she wrapped her arms around the Colonel. She felt the man kick his horse and then they were out of the fort and thundering down the hill and over the roads towards the Dragoon camp.

Margaret turned her head and glanced over at Borden, who looked to her at roughly the same moment. He smiled tightly and nodded. Margaret vaguely remembered the man being one of her rescuers and she smiled in return. She glanced up at the pale blue twilight sky and could have shouted.

_Freedom!_

It felt marvelous knowing she wouldn't have to go back to the fort. Tomorrow morning Margaret knew the sun would rise and she would be able to see it in all its glory unobstructed by stockade walls. She knew that she would not be looked askance by the dragoons for what her perceived crimes might be; the dragoons knew she was innocent.

Margaret watched as they rode past other camps, taking in flags and making her mental map of where everything was in relation to the land, orienting herself for the scouting she was certain she'd be doing soon.

Only one thing bothered Margaret and that was whether or not Tavington would harm the families of the men he sought.

Soon enough they arrived at the camp and Margaret quickly and gratefully swung down from the horse, watching as the Colonel did the same.

"I'll have someone come help you set up a tent. There are a few extras, I'm sure we can find you some space of your own." Tavington said striding across an avenue in the tent city as he unbuckled his helmet. "In the meantime I need you to follow me."

Margaret hurried to catch up to the colonel as his long strides quickly outpaced her own. Borden followed and the three of them made for one of the large command tents used by the lesser officers to bed down in.

"As you were." Tavington said as soon as he had ducked through the flap. Margaret waited for Borden to go inside and then she followed, quietly acknowledging some of the nods and smiles from the other officers. Margaret saw the colonel standing over Wilkins' cot, where the captain lay oblivious to the presence of his commander. "Wilkins!" Tavington roused the sleeping man. "A plantation seven miles from Wakefield, on the Santee east of Black Swamp. Who lived there?"

Wilkins sat up groggily, trying to think of the precise plantation his commander was asking for. Margaret tried to think too. The area was familiar to her as one her mother had ministered in.

"Benjamin Martin." Wilkins finally answered. Everyone knew the name. The man was a well respected war hero who had fought against the Cherokee in a previous war. He'd carved himself out a life with enough acreage to give him the right to sit in the House in Charlestown. Margaret vaguely remembered hearing the name whispered in Charlestown drawing rooms as one of the men who had voted against South Carolina joining the revolution at its outbreak.

"He's the ghost." Borden supplied to the quiet tent. Margaret swallowed hard and hoped that her knees wouldn't give out.

"_St. Claire….I recognize that name. Why do I know that name?"_

"_My mother was a mid-wife for many years. She and my father lived in the swamps. She nursed the women of the swamps and surrounding villages through their birthings…."_

"_Vivienne. She was a good woman."_

Margaret remembered her mother writing to her of a particularly difficult birth, one in which the child had lived, but the mother had fallen to child bed fever. The woman had been Benjamin Martin's wife.

"What do you know about him?"

"Hell everything. I could tell you the size of his boot."

"Does he have family? Where would he hide his children?" Wilkins looked ill a moment; he gazed around the tent to collect himself a moment before his eyes settled on where Margaret stood. He stared at her for a moment, before glancing up at the Colonel who towered over him.

"His wife's sister has a plantation" Wilkins said slowly, as if he had trouble saying the words. "It's not far."

"Excellent." Tavington turned and signaled for a few of the officers to follow him. "We will be riding out this evening." He stalked past where Margaret stood and only half glanced at her. "Miss St. Claire will be joining us. Someone help her find tent space and secure her a mount."

As soon as the Colonel had ducked out of the tent everyone else scrambled for boots, coats and equipment as quickly as they could in an effort to be ready as soon as possible. Wilkins grasped his own coat and quickly came to where Margaret was doing her best to dodge men bent on their own mission and make her way to the door of the tent. He tucked his jacket over his arm and then grasped Margaret's, guiding her out the tent and into the evening air.

"You're staying?" He asked as he escorted her down the avenue and away from the clamor of the officer's tent.

"Yes." Margaret answered. They stopped so Wilkins could put on his coat and then they continued on. "The Colonel negotiated my release in conjunction with his being able to go after the Ghost."

"How did he find out Ben Martin was the ghost?"

"It's a long story. Suffice it to say that they met, apparently for the second time, this afternoon at the fort. The Ghost—Martin—embarrassed the Lord General, who is now bent on revenge."

"And he's given Colonel Tavington the authorization to achieve that revenge."

Margaret nodded. They ducked between two tents and Margaret turned to face James. "I'm nervous James. He mentioned Martin's children. Tavington mentioned a stupid little boy who he hoped had died when he and Martin confronted one another. Would he hurt a child?"

"I don't know." Wilkins sighed. He glanced beyond and escorted Margaret to a tent whose flaps stood open. "Chrysler took ill while we were escorting the Lord General's supplies from Middleton. You can take his tent. We'll relocate his things and assign him to a different tent.

"Thank You."

"I'm glad you're back."

"As am I." Margaret placed her satchel on the cot within the tent and then turned back to Wilkins.

"Best get going. The Colonel won't want to wait if he thinks he has a way to trap the ghost."


	22. Minutes

Darkness blanketed the swamps as the Dragoons rode through bearing torches and ducking beneath the hanging tendrils of moss. Crickets and cicadas rasped their songs into the cool stillness of the night, hidden by shadows and a thin mist. An owl hooted in the distance as Margaret led her horse out of the trees and onto the roadway. Tavington was not far behind her and they sat upon their horses, side by side as the others came onto the roadway and arranged themselves in a formation of four columns.

"Well done." Tavington muttered, watching his men slip easily into military formation. "Missing the quiet and comforts of the fortress yet?"

"Hardly." Margaret replied, shifting subtly to back her horse. "It will be some time before I complain about the discomforts of army life, Colonel. Of that you can be certain."

"You seem nervous." Tavington had watched as her eyes shifted repeatedly over the shadows on the far side of the road, ever vigilant for rebels.

"A bit." Margaret's eyes bored into the colonel, his own a strange, deep blue in the moonlight. "Might I ask your intentions in this endeavor?"

"You may, but I doubt you'd like to hear them."

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know." Margaret refrained from moving lest she urge her horse to give ground to the Colonel and the big black.

"I'm going to put a stop to the man that hurt you."

"There were five—maybe six—of them. The Ghost wasn't one of them." Margaret said levelly. "Why do you hate him so?"

"Why don't you hate him more?" The Colonel hissed as the last of the men came forward.

"Believe me, I do hate him." Margaret said. "But not as much as you obviously do. I hate him because he _allowed _his men to do what they did."

"You're trying to make a point." Tavington leaned back and sighed, bored with their conversation.

"I spied. There's no denying that. And while I don't think the punishment fit the crime, I was guilty of something." Margaret kept her eyes on the Colonel's, unwilling to look away, lest he sense weakness. A chill slid down her spine as she stared into his pale eyes, shadowed slightly by the front of his helmet. Margaret took a deep breath before she spoke again. "I just hope you aren't going after innocents. I want the men who tortured me to pay for that crime, not their families."

"The end will justify the means." The Colonel pulled his horse's head around and moved away from where Margaret sat in the shadows at the side of the road.

"What does…" Margaret clamped her mouth shut as she watched the dragoons thunder past, raising a cloud of dust in the thin moonlight that reached the roadway through the dense forest around them. She would get no answer from Tavington until he was good and ready to tell her what he meant. She feared she'd see his intentions before she was told of them.

Margaret stayed to the back of the patrol, slowly thinking over what the Colonel had said. Perhaps he was right. If the Colonel intended on using Martin's sister-in-law and his children as leverage to gain the man's compliance, then Margaret would be avenged. But her mind kept straying back to the "stupid little boy" the Colonel had mentioned at the Fort. Would the Colonel really murder children to bring the Ghost out of hiding?

Margaret shook her head to clear the dark thoughts from her mind. She focused instead on the plantation as it came in to view, the large columns and the big windows. The land and trade had been good to the people living here. This was no farm house, but a true plantation. Margaret had no doubt that it would be finely appointed, much like the Ravenelle family home had been.

The dragoons dismounted; several fanning out and moving through the outbuildings while Colonel Tavington and a few others ascended the porch. Margaret remained mounted and sat in the shadows of the roadway as the Colonel kicked the door in, and entered the house. The property was quiet and dark, as it should be given the lateness of the hour. Someone in the house shouted that the house was clear; it was echoed by someone doing the same in one of the outbuildings. Margaret saw a shadowy figure try to flee a small house behind the big one, but they were ridden down by a dragoon and held at pistol point. The mounted dragoon motioned for the fleeing figure to walk towards the front of the house. Margaret heard shrieks from the other outbuildings—slaves being woken no doubt—but nothing from the big house. The only sign of life inside was shifting lights of the torches born by the dragoons.

Margaret saw James emerge and issue orders to expand the search. Margaret dismounted and walked slowly up to the porch.

"What's going on?" She asked quietly, slipping from the shadows of the yard to the shadows of the portico.

"They aren't inside." James glanced at her a moment. "We're expanding the search to include the out buildings. We'll question the slaves to see where they've gone. The Colonel thinks they can't have gone far, and I tend to believe he's right. The beds are rumpled….they were here not long ago."

Margaret watched James step off the porch to organize the search. She stood in the shadow of one of the big columns and watched the torches darting back and forth amongst the buildings. With her shoulder against the column, watching the activity she felt safe, somehow. The transition from her incarceration at Fort Carolina to dragoon scout was turning out to be harder than she thought it would be. Margaret took a deep breath and pulled her cloak tighter around her. This was not her affair. Not entirely. Her job was to scout, not to assist in….whatever this was.

Margaret watched as several of the dragoons mounted horses and raced off into the woods with their torches, looking for the family of Benjamin Martin. Several of the men brought the gathered slaves forward lined them up in front of the Colonel who had finally emerged from inside the house.

"This one's head of the house slaves, Colonel." James said, pushing one of the men roughly forward.

"Where are they hiding?" Tavington asked. Margaret shivered at the ice in his voice, fisting her cloak in hands that felt like icicles. When the man gave a noncommittal answer, Tavington raised his pistol and shot the slave in the chest. Margaret turned away, unwilling to watch more as the Colonel shouted to the dragoons to keep looking. Another shot rang out and Margaret heard the female slaves shrieking as another of their men fell. James looked up and saw Margaret standing in the shadow of the porch and ascended quickly.

"Margaret…?"

"I'll be alright." She looked out over the chaos that seemed to have taken hold in the darkness; grotesque shadows stretching across the night, the whole world on fire and tilted on its edge. James studied Margaret's face as she watched the dragoons rushing back and forth with their torches, her face seemed pale and drawn. Gently he tugged on the edge of her cloak, pulling her attention away from the terrors of the night.

"Come away, the Colonel has issued orders for the house to be burned." James guided Margaret down the porch steps even as one of the other captains shouted out the order to fire the house. Margaret turned as the first of the torches were tossed onto the porch, the pitch used to seal it easily catching fire and spreading to the paint on the house. She watched as the serenity of the plantation home was destroyed by the fires of the dragoons, torch after torch catching on the paint of the portico and spreading to the curtains and the roof. A shot was heard up the road and all eyes were drawn to a man rearing his horse in the middle of the fog shrouded road.

More men eased their horses from the fog and fired their pistols in the air, changing the soft shadows of the foggy night into sharp relief.

"To Horse!" Tavington shouted and the dragoons leapt into action much as the flames leapt from room to room and consumed the house behind them. Margaret stood a moment in the drive even as the dragoons raced to follow their leader and bring an end to the Ghost. She should have been able to feel the flames, but all she felt was cold. She'd set out on a path and she had the distinct notion that it was not the right one. She had to find a way to get back to the correct path or risk being lost forever.

* * *

Two days had slipped by and Margaret had led the dragoons from one side of the swamp to the other in search of the rebels who had disappeared into the mist and swamps like the ghosts they portrayed themselves to be. The dragoons had split up to cover more ground and Margaret had gone with the Colonel's division, leading him down the lesser known trails and through shortcuts of the swamps. They'd received word the night before from Major Borden that they had located two of the rebels. They'd ridden all night in an attempt to meet up with the other group and conduct the interrogation. Margaret stifled a yawn as she, Colonel Tavington and Captain Wilkins stood in a field just beyond a small farm house.

"Beautiful country." Tavington said quietly. Margaret watched as the Colonel looked over the land that would soon need to be harvested. She looked over the fields and took in the number of weeds sprouting up between the rows, the late blooming autumn flowers threatening to choke out the life of the squash and corn. She came to the realization that the farmer who put in this crop had not tended it for some time. He was probably never going to reap it. "Everything grows here."

The serenity of the morning was cut by the blood curdling scream that sliced through the air from the direction of the farm house. Margaret flinched even as Captain Wilkins shifted uneasily beside her. Margaret kept her gaze on the Colonel though, watching the harsh façade fall quickly into place as he heaved a sigh and turned towards the building where Major Borden was interrogating the first of the rebels.

"Are you alright?" Wilkins whispered as they followed the Colonel. Margaret quickened her pace trying to keep up with the long strides of the men.

"I will be. Just tired I suppose." She said with a sigh as she stepped into the small house. James thought perhaps she was right. She seemed pale, and dark circles rimmed her eyes. She had not spent much time in the saddle over the course of the summer and now she'd spent the better part of two days and several late nights upon a horse. James followed her into the small house and the two of them followed the Colonel as he stepped into the room Borden had been questioning the first of the men in. Margaret stepped into the room and gasped; it took everything in her to keep from bolting from the room at the sight of the dead man lying on the table.

"Well?" Tavington snapped, drawing Borden's attention from the window.

"I'm sorry sir," Borden responded emotionlessly as he crossed to the table. He grasped the dead man by the scalp and lifted his head for the Colonel to see. "He died."

Margaret held her breath, unable to bring her gaze away from the man who had so obviously been tortured. Her attention was pulled away when Colonel Tavington threw a sprig of lavender to the ground and went to the side of the big kitchen table. Margaret watched as anger and frustration passed across his face. Grasping the table, he tilted it, sending the body crashing unceremoniously to the floor.

"Bring me the other one!" Tavington walked away from the table as two lieutenants brought the second prisoner into the room.

Tavington paused and watched Margaret's reaction to the second man as he was shuffled into the room behind him. Her eyes grew wide and her breathing seemed to stop. She grew altogether too pale and for a moment he feared she would faint.

"Miss St. Clair?" He came quite close to where she stood and kept his voice low, ready to catch her should she fall. "Are you well?"

"That's one of them." She whispered. "That's the one who…" Margaret gulped as she watched Borden dump a sack out on the table revealing a trove of gold coins and other valuables.

"This one's a rebel and a thief." The major announced.

"I'm not a thief, I'm a patriot." The man said, tilting his head back to stare defiantly at the back of Tavington's head. Suddenly his eyes darted to the others in the room and they focused on Margaret. Margaret met his gaze, staring down the man who had led her into the rebel's trap. The same man who had struck her violently at the creek side, and one of the ones who had trussed her up with the snakes. Margaret's vision seemed to close down as she focused on the man's dark eyes and pock marked face.

"Who is he Margaret?" Tavington whispered, bending his head to hear her answer.

It was an unnecessary gesture.

Margaret lashed out, pushing past the Colonel and rushing across the room towards the rebel, still being held between the two lieutenants. The Colonel spun around, caught off guard by her sudden movement.

"He's the one who surprised me in the woods. He's the one who led me into that trap and got me abducted." Margaret snarled. Tavington watched as she rounded the table, drew her arm back and struck the rebel across the face—hard. He saw her fists curl and she hurled herself at the rebel, the two lieutenants on either side too shocked by the madwoman in front of them to pull the man away. "He's the one who put the gag in my mouth. He's one of my abusers!"

Tavington crossed the room quickly and wrapped an arm around Margaret's waist and hauled her away from the rebel before she could claw the man's eyes out. She lunged for the man again but Tavington pushed her back and held her at arms' length.

"Let me go…" Margaret growled, pushing at his arms futilely.

Tavington made a noise low in his throat as he studied the wall behind Margaret for a moment. This would pose a problem. He had been quite prepared to offer the man his life in return for the information he wanted. That was before he'd seen Margaret's reaction to the man; before he realized who the man was. He'd promised the scout justice; how could he uphold that promise and still gain the information he desired? Tavington cursed silently to himself as he turned back towards the rebel.

He might have wanted to give Margaret justice, and to have her be grateful to him, but his priority had to be putting a stop to Benjamin Martin and avenging the Lord General so he could lay claim to thousands of acres in Ohio.

"I wonder how patriotic you'd be if I offered you the chance to walk out of here alive."

"No!" Margaret ground out between clenched teeth but no one even acknowledged her, even as she stepped closer to the rebel.

"And to triple all of this. And all you have to is tell me where I can find Benjamin Martin and his rabble." The rebel grinned, revealing long yellow teeth that Margaret had had nightmares about for weeks after she'd been rescued. Margaret lunged, but Tavington stopped her by barring her attack with an outstretched arm. The rebel stared at Margaret as he smiled, confidence rolling off him in waves. Margaret seethed quietly, staring back at the man. Suddenly the man turned back towards the colonel and spit viciously in Tavington's face.

"Do your worst." The man hissed. Margaret's heart thundered as the Colonel wiped the spit from his face, glaring at the rebel before him. Borden grasped the man by the coat and threw him violently against the table, pressing his face into the worn wooden boards smeared with the blood of his comrade.

"I always do." Tavington's voice was smooth, the light in his eyes speaking of enjoyment, and the thrill of getting what he wanted from the yellow-toothed rebel. "Captain Wilkins, remove Miss St. Claire from the premises."

"Yes Sir." James grasped Margaret's arm, whispering her name to get her attention.

"No." She muttered again, trying to push away from him. She stalked up to the table and stared up at the Colonel. "What do you intend to do?"

"That's none of your business."

"That man destroyed the last six months of my life…."

"Captain Wilkins! I thought I gave you an order." James gripped Margaret's arm firmly and tugged her away from the middle of the room. The rebel tried to push away from the table and Borden lost his grip on the rebel's collar. Margaret struggled against James as he tried to pull her from the room. She watched as Tavington pulled his arm back and punched the yellow toothed rebel in the face, blood splattered across the table and she heard the man grunt at the pain.

"Is that all you've got?" He asked through a broken mouth. James wrapped an arm around Margaret's waist and lifted her feet off the ground, carrying her out of the room before she could witness anything else.

"Let me go!" Margaret struggled against James as he carried her out of the house and out onto the narrow front porch. "You're hurting me!" James released her but remained in the doorway preventing her from entering again. Margaret shoved at his shoulder, trying to get him to move out of the way. James could hear the sound of someone getting beaten soundly and grasped Margaret's wrists as her fists flew at his chest.

"Margaret, come away."

"No!" Margaret tried to tug her hands away from him but he held fast, forcing her away from the door. "No! I want to see! I have to see….!" Margaret continued to struggle until they heard the screaming begin. Margaret froze, her eyes going wide as she looked towards the door of the little farm house. James took the opportunity her distraction offered to pull her farther away from the yard and into the field beyond the house. He half dragged her into the tree line where the sounds from the house grew blessedly quiet. James tugged Margaret into the shade of the trees and stood in front of her.

"Margaret look at me." James cupped her face and brought her startled gaze to his. "Margaret?"

"What have I done?" Margaret's eyes darted towards the house and then slowly moved back to James' face. "What have I done?"

"Nothing." James watched as tears welled in her eyes and spilled across her cheeks. He brushed them away with his thumb as her lips trembled. "You did nothing…"

"I lost my mind…" Margaret whispered; she felt like she was choking. What had come over her in that house? "I attacked that man…."

"You were angry, you had every right to be." James watched as the tears continued to flow across her cheeks.

"I've never been so angry in my life." Margaret took a shuddering breath and tried to dash the tears from her cheeks. "I've never been so angry that I wanted to…"

"Wanted to what?" James prompted when she stopped speaking.

"I wanted to kill him. I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands. James, I wanted to watch that man die." Margaret covered her mouth with her hands to stop the torrent of words that seemed to spill from her. She began to bawl, great wracking sobs that shook her shoulders and stole her breath. James slowly and gently pulled her into an embrace.

"This is my fault…." She hiccupped into his coat as he tightened one arm about her waist and smoothed over her back with the other, letting her cry, trying to sooth her.

"No it isn't." James said, tucking her head beneath his chin.

"It is! If I…If I hadn't…" She hiccuped again, unable to continue through the emotion the ordeal was bringing up.

"Hush…" James shifted his weight subtly and rocked her back and forth gently, letting her cry as she never had the ability to do. "You're just tired is all."

"No!" Margaret tried to push away from him but his embrace tightened, keeping her in the shelter of his arms.

"Yes. You're tired and you're angry, and that is as it should be." He reached into his pocket and pulled a kerchief out. He set Margaret back and dabbed at the tears still clinging to her face.

"I shouldn't be here." She studied his face as he wiped the tears from her cheeks. "This isn't….this isn't right." She hiccuped.

James heaved a sigh and slowly shook his head. "I fear you're correct." He answered. "You never should have been brought in to this. You never should have been allowed to come with us."

"But I did." Margaret closed her eyes and swallowed hard, trying to come to grips with what was going on around her. "I volunteered. I have to accept the consequences of that decision."

"Nothing that's happened to you in the last year is a fair consequence." James shook his head.

"I can't leave….he'll never let me." Margaret bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She _would not _cry again. James slowly cupped her face, stroking away the fat tear that slid from her closed eyes and spilled down her cheek. Gently he angled her face to meet his as he pressed his lips feather light to hers. He could taste the salt of her tears on her lips, could feel them tremble against his own.

Margaret stopped thinking, stopped analyzing everything that had gone wrong or whether it had gone right; stopped thinking about what was right or wrong. She allowed herself to fall into the kiss; this moment. She ran her hands up James' arms and eased in closer, wrapping her arms over his shoulders. She felt his hands slip beneath her cloak and pull her closer until there wasn't a breath of air between them—from nose to knee—and her feet no longer touched the ground. He deepened the kiss, moving his lips against hers and she responded in kind. Margaret didn't care if it was proper or what anyone else might think. She was _enjoying _something. She hadn't enjoyed much of anything, not since the ball last spring and she knew that the odds were good that she wouldn't enjoy anything any time soon, not the way the past few months had gone. Margaret curled her fingers into the wool of his coat, holding fast to James as if he were a lifeline.

A pistol shot echoed through the air around them, separating them. Margaret gasped against James' lips and tried to push away from him though he held her close.

"James…"

"Shh." James kissed her temple and held her as her breathing slowly returned to normal. "Just one more moment."

"Is that all we'll ever have?" Margaret whispered, not willing to open her eyes or release her hold on James. "Stolen moments interrupted by war and violence?"

"I hope not." He felt Margaret sigh and then she pushed away from him, slowly he let her slide through his arms until her feet touched the ground and she took a step back. She dashed the last of the tears from her eyes and looked up at him.

"I hope not either, but I fear my hopes count for nothing these days." James opened his mouth to say more but she brushed past him and stepped away from the shade of the trees and out into the daylight. He hung his head briefly before he too left the shelter of the woods and stepped out into the field.

Their moment was over.


	23. A Light in the Darkness

A/N: I'm terribly sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter done. Not only did I encounter the flashing cursor of doom, but I was working 14 hours a day over the course of the holidays, which pretty much meant my schedule consisted of work, sleep, eat and nothing else. I think I finally got the kinks worked out and am satisfied enough to get this speed bump out of the way and on to the next one. Thanks for sticking with me as long as many of you have, and thanks to the new folks that are following me. I hope I don't disappoint.

* * *

Margaret was exhausted.

Every bone and muscle ached, her eyes burned with fatigue, and she could not stop yawning. She'd nodded off while still in the saddle, something she never did. The pale blue light from the waxing moon illuminated the dragoon camp and helped the tired dragoons in putting up their horses for the evening. Margaret turned her brushed down horse over to someone—she wasn't sure who—to be taken to the picket line and then made her way towards the tent she'd stowed her things in but hadn't yet slept in. There were no blankets on the cot, nor was there a pillow, but Margaret had been sleeping on the ground and had made do with a saddle as a pillow for more nights than she cared to count. To say that the cot looked like the best bed in the grandest of palaces was an understatement. Had it really only been a matter of days since she'd been sleeping in a bed in a house? Had she really given up four walls and a door for a tent and a cot?

She had. She had given it up willingly, had fled the confines of the fort, and hadn't looked back. Even now, when her sleep deprived brain struggled to make sense of everything, she knew that leaving the fort had been the best thing for her.

The events that had happened since leaving Fort Carolina were not.

She didn't want to think about what had happened, the things she'd seen or heard; the blood, the terrified screams. She wanted to block it from her mind forever and never think on it ever again. But first and foremost, Margaret was a spy. She saw things, heard things, chronicled them in her mind, no matter the lateness of the hour or the tiredness of her body. Her mind was constantly working, putting together pieces of the puzzle and sorting out what the next move might be.

It was because she was a good spy, and a good observer of people that she knew, as soon as she had set foot in the yard of the little farm house that Colonel Tavington had information. It might not have been the information he wanted, but it was information he wanted to use. And as the man had said before, there was nothing of greater importance to him than finding things that were of use to him.

Names. The second rebel had given up names and Tavington intended on hunting the people with those names down. He intended on seeing them harmed in order to gain the location of Benjamin Martin's hideaway. He wanted the families of the rebels punished.

But Tavington also knew that the dragoons and their horses were exhausted and low on supplies, and that in order to make this vendetta work, he needed everything to be in order and prepared. No going off half-cocked or blind to what might be an ambush.

And so they had returned to the camp. Tavington had released everyone to their tents to sleep. Word had already spread down the line of troops that there would be an officers meeting the following morning and that everyone would need to re-supply and prepare to be moving out by the next afternoon or perhaps the morning after if supplies couldn't be brought in quickly enough. Margaret had listened to the orders and nodded doggedly as word had gone down the column. She was glad of it. Her crying jag earlier in the day had taken what little energy she had left and drained her utterly. She was ready to be off of a horse and to try to get her feet under her and organize this newest chapter of her life.

Margaret approached the tent that had been set aside for her and shook her head as she yawned. Organizing her life could wait until tomorrow. Sleep was her number one priority.

Margaret didn't care that she had been on the road for nearly a week. She didn't care that she hadn't changed her gown, or slept on something raised off the ground. She didn't care that her hair was tangled or how much dirt might be on her face. She cared about how inviting a bare little army cot looked and how much she wanted to lie upon it and sleep for days. Margaret didn't even bother to take her cloak off before lying on the hard little bed and rolling into the folds of wool that had been her only protection from the cold night air. She pulled her knees up and tucked the bottom of the garment around her feet before sleep claimed her in a great black wave.

* * *

Colonel Tavington was far from exhausted. He felt energized; the most alive he'd felt since this stupid war had started. He was _finally _going to be able to prove his worth to those bloody morons who thought they knew what war was. Those fat, bewigged 'gentlemen' who stayed to the rear and moved men across the battlefield the same way they moved chess pieces across a board didn't even realize that things had changed. Finally he'd get to show them that the only way to get something done, the only way to stop the insurrection of the colonists was to lead from the front. Tavington paced through the camp, listening as his men began to bed down for the night. How did none of them realize how the world was changing? Everyone in England referred to the colonies as "The New World" and attempted to treat it as the old. They attempted to fight the wars as they would in the old world. But Old World cities and towns were walled in, built hundreds of years ago. This land had seen less than two hundred years of civilization and few of their towns were walled. Siege warfare was a thing of the past. These colonists had learned from the savages about guerilla tactics and about how to navigate the swamps and use the land to their advantage.

No-fighting this war as it would have been fought in the old world was foolhardy. He would have to show them that their old tactics were worthless in this new land. He would have to be the one to show them how to adapt to this modern warfare, that his way of things was the only way to win.

Tavington wandered towards the tent where he knew Margaret St. Claire was sleeping. He approached slowly, listening carefully to see if she might still be awake. Standing quite still beside the canvas flap of the door he heard her deep, even breaths in the quiet night. Somehow, he drew comfort from the sound. She was content enough to sleep deeply in the camp. She had given up the sanctuary of the Fort, the comforts afforded to those living in close proximity to the Lord General, to return to _him._ The sound of more troopers returning from the field briefly pulled his attention away. He had work to see to, but peace was such a rare facet of his life that he stood in the moonlight a moment more, in spite of the duties that called him. As the sound died down he heard whimpering on the other side of the tent flap beside him.

* * *

_Margaret wandered through what she assumed were woods. Everything was blanketed in a fog thicker than anything she'd ever seen. The mist billowed and swirled around dark gray trunks that stretched endlessly up into a sky just as gray as anything on the ground. Margaret held her hands out in front of her in an effort to dispel the fog, or at the very least prevent herself from bumbling into a tree. She sliced her hand through the dense fog, but nothing happened. She turned, glancing over her shoulder, but when she looked ahead again, she was disoriented and couldn't figure out which way she'd been moving in the first place. In the distance, Margaret could hear something. There was a low rumbling sound that seemed to grow louder and closer with each passing minute. Through it she heard someone shout her name. Margaret turned, looking into the fog, hoping that she'd find whoever was calling to her. The noise grew louder and Margaret ran faster, bumping into trees, tripping over roots. Before long, Margaret realized the roots were reaching up to grasp at her skirts and wrap around her ankles. Margaret screamed, shrieking as one of the roots pulled her to the ground. She kicked out and scrambled away from the root, threatening to draw her back into the suffocating nothingness of the fog. Her legs wouldn't work and she found it difficult to rise. She wrapped her arms around a tree and looked into the clearing beyond._

_Sun shone down into the small glade and Margaret watched as the fog seemed to retreat back into the trees, recoiling from the light. In the glade Margaret could make out two figures, one was James Wilkins, the other was William Tavington. Margaret watched as both men reached towards her and called her name softly. _

"_Margaret?" Margaret watched as the sky slowly darkened and the light began to be strangled by the fog. She tried to lever herself away from the tree, to reach out for either of the two men, but found herself stuck to the tree in a sticky resin. When she finally pulled her hand away from the tree it was covered in what she at first thought was sap, but soon realized was blood. She looked up the length of the impossibly tall trunk and saw that the blood wept from the bark of the tree in slow bubbling rivulets. She screamed even as one of the big drops slid over her fingers and wrapped around her wrist._

"_Margaret?"_

* * *

Tavington cautiously pulled back the tent flap and watched as Margaret writhed and tossed on the tiny camp bed. In the faint sliver of moonlight that spilled over his shoulder into the tent, he could barely make out Margaret's pinched features. He knelt beside her cot, gently shaking her shoulder, trying to draw her from the nightmare that seemed to grip her. Only then did he notice that she had no blankets and slept beneath the cloak she'd been wearing for days. Tavington glanced around, searching for bedding that had not yet been retrieved from Fort Carolina. He slipped from the tent quietly and went to his own tent to retrieve blankets. On his return, Margaret had not yet roused, but she seemed calmer. He lay the blankets over her and watched as her fingers twitched, grasping at something in her dream, or perhaps brushing something away.

* * *

_Margaret crawled away from the tree, dragging herself through the loam of the forest floor. She heard her name called over and over, but could never manage to get to either of the men standing in the clearing. She screamed, she was certain she screamed, but found that no sound came out. She reached for a root, the better to drag herself along with, when it turned into a snake in her hand. Margaret rolled away, only then realizing how close she had pulled herself to Tavington. She wrapped a hand around his boot and looked up into the face of Benjamin Martin. He stared at her with pale gray eyes, devoid of any emotion and watched as she looked around a now empty clearing. _

"_Margaret…"_

Margaret opened her eyes and stared at Tavington as he pulled a blanket up to her chin, the vision of her nightmare fading away into reality. She was safe in camp. Tavington was the one standing over her, not Martin. William would protect her from The Ghost.

"Go back to sleep." Tavington whispered as he brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. "You need rest."

Margaret closed her eyes, too weary to pull herself fully from the grip of sleep. Tavington waited until her breathing was deep and even again, her features calmer, before he left the tent and made to prepare for his next foray into the Colonial countryside.

* * *

Margaret sat up abruptly and instantly regretted doing so. Her body ached. It felt as if she'd run all the miles she had in her dream from the night before and her head was pounding. Her mouth was dry as a bone and she licked her lips before clearing her throat as she levered herself upright. She groaned as pain lanced up her shoulder and neck, her arm numb and tingling. A dull, persistent pressure settled over her stomach and she knew instinctively that her courses were upon her. She flopped back down and closed her eyes.

"_Wonderful" _She thought. "_Nothing like gallivanting across the country side saddled with Eve's Curse and the cramps to go with it."_

She lay for a moment, trying to think of what she could do to ease her discomfort when she noticed how quiet everything was. She reached into the cold October air and pulled back the tent flap, staring into the faint light of the midmorning sun.

The camp was deathly quiet. Nothing moved and the only sound came from the chattering squirrels, busy trying to lay in their winter stores.

_Where was everyone?_

Shouting from the direction of the corral told Margaret the answer. The men were preparing to go on the move again. If she were to be of use to the Colonel and not a burden, she would have to get up and get herself ready to ride out. Margaret sat up slowly and walked into the trees, looking for a place to privately take care of her morning business. Once cleaned up as best as she could be, she took her time walking back into camp, hoping that the movement would alleviate the cramps and allow her to go on with the rest of her day. The cramps threatened to double her over and she felt as if she would fall, her legs were so wobbly. She hated feeling like this; she rarely felt ill when her courses came, but every once in a while, they came upon her with a vengeance. She usually had herbs or teas to help mitigate the symptoms, but she'd had no time to gather things and hadn't even realized her time was upon her. Margaret paused in front of her tent when she saw Colonel Tavington approaching.

"Good Morning, colonel." Margaret tried to smile, but knew it was a weak effort. Tavington's eyes danced across her features, icy cold as ever. "I'll be just a moment . I'm sorry to have over slept." She took one step away from the Colonel and grasped the beam of her tent as she doubled over with a cramp.

"No you won't." The Colonel's voice sounded from just behind her as she tried to stand up. "Lie down…" She felt Tavington's hands on her back and waist. The warmth felt good and she didn't argue with his suggestion. She allowed him to guide her back into her tent and seat her upon the cot. "Better now?" He asked, staring down at her.

"I'll be fine, I just need a moment…."

"You obviously need rest. I pushed you too hard, I'm sorry." Margaret looked up at Tavington as he shook out the folds of the thick wool blanket and nodded for her to lie down. Margaret did as she was bid, her mind reeling over the man's apology, and watched as the colonel pulled the blanket over her and tucked it under her chin.

"I'm not an invalid Colonel." Margaret whispered. The blanket was warm and heavy, and she struggled to remain awake as she curled up beneath it, savoring the warmth and finding a position that was comfortable.

"You're ill. You won't be any help to anyone if you can't sit a horse. And I don't need you making anyone else ill." Tavington paused a moment, staring down at Margaret's drawn features, the dark circles beneath her eyes and the light sheen of sweat covering her brow. "Those surgeon friends of yours aren't far away, shall I send for them?"

Margaret tried not to smile, but found it impossible. "Colonel, women have been dealing with my ailment since Eve ate that apple in the garden…..there's nothing to be done. And I certainly can't get anyone else here sick with what I'm suffering with." Margaret took perverse joy in seeing the Colonel's face blanch slightly. For all his bluster, his cold exterior and vindictive nature, Tavington was still a man who hated hearing about the intimate maladies of a woman.

"Very well then." Tavington said as he cleared his throat. "You're sure you'll be alright by yourself?"

"I don't plan on leaving the camp, Colonel." Margaret sighed, her eyes already feeling heavy. The lack of sleep, or the restlessness of it, had suddenly hit her. Coupled with the fact that at the moment she was warm and comfortable for the first time all morning, she was struggling to stay awake while the colonel hovered above her. Margaret watched as Tavington ducked out of the tent and the interior was thrown back into shadow. With that darkness, Margaret fell quickly back to sleep, this time without any of the terrifying dreams that had plagued her the night before.

Two days later, when the dragoons returned, Margaret felt much more like her usual self. Her personal effects had been delivered from the fort and she now had access to the herbs she needed to feel human. The camp went from being dead and empty to being full of life and the buzz of activity. For two days, Margaret had been too afraid to wander far from her tent. Every branch snapping in the woods or horse whinnying on the picket line spooked her. Now that the dragoons were back, she felt as if she could breathe again, as if she were well and truly safe now that there were dozens of men in the tents either side of her own.

But something was off. Margaret's spy instincts hummed as she watched the fallen faces of some of the men. Several of them sat outside their tents, staring into space. Others kept themselves busy with mindless tasks such as polishing brass and oiling leather. Margaret wandered through the camp until she saw James Wilkins standing outside the junior officer's tent. She stood in the middle of the lane between tents, waiting for him to notice she was there. She watched as his eyes flickered over another man's shoulder and center on her. Margaret nodded in the direction of the sparse woods behind the camp and began to move into that direction. She was un-surprised when moments later she heard his foot falls behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder and ducked around a large trunk, resting her back against it as James eased up to stand in front of her.

"Margaret…"

"What happened out there?"

"Nice to see you too." James' gaze narrowed as she stared up at him. Her posture was tense, and she seemed on edge. "Are you well? I was surprised when the Colonel didn't bring you with us….after the last time…"

"I'm fine." Margaret suppressed a grin, knowing full and well she wouldn't have been in any condition at all to have been out with the dragoons. "I wasn't feeling well, but now I'm right as rain."

"That's good to hear."

"What happened?" She pressed. James sighed and leaned into the tree beside her. He grasped a browning leaf and began to peel it apart in his hands. "You can't tell me nothing happened. I've seen the men. Some of them are disturbed…"

"I don't know all of it." James let the pieces of the leaf sift through his fingertips, allowing the wind to pick up the debris and carry it away. "Something bad happened out there. I haven't heard what yet."

"Hmmm…."

"Margaret…no." James grasped her hand and stared into her eyes. "Don't go on a fishing expedition. Don't go digging."

"But…"

"_Don't."_ James' fingers tightened and she tried to pull away. "You don't need to know. Leave it be."

"Why?"

"Because." It was Margaret's turn to narrow her gaze.

"I hated it when my husband used to give me that excuse. I hated it when John Miller used it to assert his will, usually for no other reason than to say he had no good reason for me to do or not do something. That is not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have for you." James sighed. "I just don't want you being affected by this."

"You don't even know what _this _is." Margaret meant to pull away, to storm back to the camp, but James trapped her against the tree. "Let me pass."

"Please Margaret, don't leave angry." Margaret watched as James studied her face. "As you said the other day, all we have are stolen moments, please let them be the few moments of happiness I have in this war."

Margaret dropped her gaze and slowly placed her hand against the soft green wool of his jacket lapel and brushed her fingers across the shiny brass buttons. She felt him shift his weight and she looked up just as he ducked his head to brush his lips over hers.

"I'm sorry." She whispered when he eased back. She tried to clear her throat and marveled that even the softest and briefest of his kisses could leave her light headed. "I didn't mean to be so cross. I just don't like being in the dark."

"You're a beacon in the darkness…."

"I am not." Margaret giggled and pushed him away. "Stop exaggerating."

"You are….that's why I don't want you digging." James tugged on the end of her braid playfully. "I don't want to see you tarnished by this. I'm trying to protect you."

"That's a hard job to do in the middle of a war James." She reached up and caressed his face, watching as he closed his eyes and softly placed a kiss against her palm. "I'd prefer it if you looked after yourself. I don't know what I'd do if…" James silenced the morbid thought with a quick kiss.

"None of that." He pulled her away from the tree and began to lead her back to the camp. "I believe there are some visitors coming tonight. I know the Colonel wanted you to look your best for dinner this evening."

"What?" Margaret leaned into him, knocking his arm with her shoulder. "When did you hear this?"

"That's what the lieutenant was telling me when you came up. He didn't know where you were though."

"I guess I should prepare then." Margaret wondered who the guest, or guests, might be. She highly doubted that Cornwallis would leave the comforts of the fort to dine with the cavalry, but then again, given Tavington's mission, he just might come down for a report. The only way Margaret would find out who the dinner guests were would be to prepare for the evening meal and see for herself.


	24. Dinner Guests

Margaret rifled through the trunk and found the striped dress she'd worn to tea with the Lord General shortly after she'd been rescued. She and Constance had bundled it together when she'd deemed the dress too fine to wear while mucking about in the gardens. She was glad she had bundled things together, it made finding them in her trunk easy. She pulled the gown from the protective wrapping and laid it upon her cot. She walked to the stream to gather some water and set it in a pot over a fire so that she might have a warm sponge bath instead of an icy cold one. She brushed her hair out, marveling at how much longer it had gotten. Working quickly, she managed to get her hair pinned up and made sure it was presentable in the tiny shaving mirror she'd found left behind in the tent. It took her nearly no time at all to wash the dirt and grime from her body and change into clean undergarments. When she pulled the gown on and flounced it into place over her petticoats the strong scent of lavender and sage wafted around her. She smiled, thinking that even if she smelled, the strong odors of the herbs would mask the worst of it. There was no full length mirror, nor was there another woman to tell her whether or not she looked presentable. She tugged and pulled everything into place as best she could and decided that whatever she was able to achieve in camp would just have to do. With one brush of her hands over her hair, she pulled her shawl from her chest and stepped out into the camp.

Margaret approached Colonel Tavington's command tent, assuming that if there were to be a visitor dining in the camp, they would most likely be hosted at the commander's tent. She gathered the fringe of her shawl closer to her and increased her pace as the wind began to pick up. She had almost reached the tent when she heard a wagon clattering behind her.

"Must you hit EVERY ditch in what passes for roads in these infernal colonies?" Margaret smiled as Doctor Anders' reedy voice lanced through the chill October air. "Blast it man!"

Margaret turned to see Doctor Frasier waving from the bed of the wagon as Doctor Anders sat atop the seat beside their driver. Margaret waved in return and stepped aside as the wagon clattered past. She jogged to catch up as the vehicle came to a stop outside the command tent and Doctor Frasier leapt down. He looked thinner, and older, Margaret thought as the man stepped forward and hugged her.

"Oh my dear, it is SO good to see you!" Margaret smiled as the old man took her hands and held them out to her sides that he might better see her. "You have not been back with the dragoons long?"

"No, only this past week."

"That is good to hear! I was most excited to receive the Colonel's invitation to dine and to see you." His gaze focused on her cheek and she saw his eyes turn sad. "I am so sorry…"

"What were you going to do about it?" Doctor Anders climbed stiffly from the seat of the wagon and hobbled towards where Margaret and his colleague stood. "Were you going to run off like the white knight in those stories you insist on reading to your grand children?"

Margaret grinned, happy to see that nothing had changed between the two doctors. She watched as Doctor Anders came closer, his arthritis obviously causing him great trouble and pain. He hobbled with a cane as he rounded the wagon scowling at Doctor Frasier.

"It's good to see you to Doctor Anders." Margaret smirked. She watched as the other man's eyes began to water. She stepped forward and grasped his hand where he gripped a cane in a firm grip. "Don't feel guilty…"

"It was my fault…you went out looking for that plant for me…."

"Among other things…" Margaret glanced over Doctor Anders' shoulder at where Colonel Tavington stood outside his tent, watching the exchange. "I've learned things since then."

"Doctors, Miss St. Clair….I believe we're here to eat." Tavington called. Doctor Anders nodded and slowly turned, holding out his arm to escort Margaret towards the campaign tent.

For Margaret, the evening went by as a blur. She listened as the Doctors filled her in on their summers and told her of the problems they had had in keeping herbs stocked. The whole time, Tavington remained quiet, allowing her and the doctors to catch up and discuss herbs and medicine. Throughout the conversations, and occasional arguments, Margaret cast Tavington glances, trying to assess what he thought of the conversations. His intense interest in the modest camp food and reclined posture once finished told her that this dinner was not for him, but her. At one point, while the two doctors were arguing she caught Tavington's eye and mouthed the words "Thank You." She watched as a small smile touched his eyes and he mouthed back the words "You're welcome."

Eventually the conversation turned to the stock, or utter lack of one, that the doctors had been left with for several months.

"We just don't know the plants and herbs the way you do. We don't know what they look like at different times of the year." Doctor Anders groused.

"You brought us herbs in the height of their bloom." Doctor Frasier sighed. "But by summer they had born fruit and looked different, and now they have withered. Do they even have the same potency? What roots are growing beneath the earth that we're ignoring because we don't know what they're supposed to look like?"

"So you're saying neither of you went out looking?" It was the first sentence Colonel Tavington had uttered since they'd sat at the table and all eyes turned towards him.

"Well, things were still a bit frightening after…" Frasier murmured. "We were discouraged from going out for fear there would be a repeat occurrence."

"Not as if I was capable of going out." Anders put in, raising his cane. "We were very much shackled."

"So with what have you been treating the men?" Tavington's tone was glacial.

"We've bought things from the locals…"

"Colonials." The Colonel spat.

"But we're running out of funds." Anders put in. "We leapt at this opportunity to speak to Miss St. Claire hoping she'd be willing to help."

"Of course I am…" Margaret grasped Doctor Frasier's hand where it rested atop the table near her own. "I'll be back shortly!"

Margaret stood and rushed from the tent leaving the three men sitting at the table. She dashed through the lanes of the camp to her tent where she quickly dug through her trunk for the book she'd been working on. She clutched it to her chest and ran out of her tent, only to run straight into James Wilkins' broad chest.

"James!"

"I saw you rushing through the camp…is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine. Colonel Tavington invited Doctors Frasier and Anders to dinner. Their stores of herbs are low." James turned and walked with Margaret back towards the Colonel's tent. "They don't know what the roots look like, or what plants can be used since everything is dormant now that it's autumn."

"So you're bringing them your book?" James glanced down where Margaret was clutching the volume to her chest. "You finished it?"

"Well, I didn't get everything in it I wanted to. And I'll admit that some of the drawings are less than perfect, but it's better than nothing."

"May I?" Margaret passed the book over to James as they walked, and pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders in the chill night. James flipped through pages, studying the drawings of plants she'd made and the way they could be used for healing. He studied a picture of a plant with small flowers that Margaret had painstakingly colored bright yellow. In a crisp, clear hand, she'd written out the words "Herbe Aux mille Vertus" and then "St. John's Wort" beneath it. Down the left hand side of the page she had written out what the plant could be used for, listing things such as headaches, anxiety, and a cure for a loss of appetite. On the opposite page she'd listed how the plant could be used. She'd also detailed how to turn it into an oil and how best to store it.

"Margaret, this is amazing…" James flipped to another page, admiring the drawing of a plant in various stages of bloom and what it's uses were. "How did you learn all of this?"

"My mother taught me much." She shivered slightly. "There were other things I picked up in the swamps from local women and then there were some things I learned while in Charles Town from books in my husband's library." She took the book back and hugged it to her. "With this, I can help the doctors, and the men they're treating."

"You're a constant help." James stopped and took her hand in his briefly, brushing his lips across the back of her knuckles. "Never forget that."

Margaret's cheeks colored as James walked into the darkness of the camp beyond. She was preoccupied with watching his retreating shadow and never noticed Colonel Tavington watching them.

* * *

Margaret stepped into the light of the torches leading up to the Colonel's tent, clutching the book to her chest and grinning. She stopped short when she saw Colonel Tavington standing in the entry way.

"Colonel." Margaret gulped at the look on the man's face. She shivered in the cold as he continued to block the entry to the tent. "The doctor's haven't left, have they?"

"No." Slowly, he stepped aside and let her into the tent. Margaret slouched past, intimidated by the Colonel's intense gaze and posture. Tavington watched as she sat down on a camp stool between the two doctors and began discussing what was contained in the book she'd brought with her.

Tavington watched from a distance, arms crossed over his chest as the three went through the book page by page.

She was an intelligent woman, it was one of the first things he'd noticed about her. He knew that she sensed that something was amiss after the last foray into the Colonial wilds. He hoped she hadn't found out about the patrol that had killed the woman and child at the small farm on the Santee. He'd heard the reports as each of the patrols had returned, and each of them had destroyed the farms of the men who had been named by the rebel at the inn. Most of the families had been out in the fields, and though they'd argued at the burning of their homes, few of them had outright resisted. Those that had had been executed as traitors and guilty of sedition. He knew that if Margaret had found out about the death of the child, she'd hate him. He sometimes worried about how much she'd discovered about what had occurred the year before when he'd killed Benjamin Martin's son after the boy had attacked his men. The elder son had been carrying messages for the enemy, and the younger seemed to idolize him and the cause of the rebels. Tavington had done what he thought best; he'd captured a rebel courier and put a stop to an attack on infantrymen trying to do their duty. There was no room for mercy in war. He began to think of the situation as killing a nest of rats: certainly one could kill the rats that could be seen, but if you didn't eradicate the entire nest and if you didn't kill the young, then the problem would constantly resurface. All he'd done at the Martin plantation, and all his men had done at that dirty little farm, was to put a stop to the up and coming rebels that would no doubt kill them in a future battle.

"Do you agree Colonel?" Tavington pulled himself from his thoughts and looked up at where the three other people in the tent were staring at him.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I wasn't listening." Tavington strolled forward and poured himself another glass of wine. "To what am I agreeing?"

"Our stores are woefully low…and we are far too old to be gallivanting about the colonies in search of the things we need." Doctor Frasier sighed. "Especially when Miss St. Claire could bring them back quickly and easily without any of the guess work…."

"What my long winded colleague is trying to ask is if Miss St. Claire would be provided an escort, in order to gather herbs to supplement our surgery."

"If she feels up to it, I see no reason not to grant her an escort." Margaret focused on the Colonel, shocked that he'd acquiesce to the request. "If it will help his majesty's army, then it shall be done."

"Thank you Colonel." Doctor Frasier sighed again and then glanced between Margaret and Doctor Anders. "I fear though that we must be returning to our own camp. It does grow late."

Both men stood from the table and Margaret rose to say her good byes to them both. She took Doctor Anders' arm again as they left the tent and went with them to where the wagon awaited them.

"Be careful my dear." The doctor said as they walked behind Tavington and Frasier. "I don't like what I hear about your Colonel."

"He isn't mine." Margaret whispered back. "What have you heard?"

"That he's a butcher." Anders whispered back. "That he's ruthless and blood thirsty. That he will kill women and children."

"He has the approval of Lord General Cornwallis." Margaret hissed back. "The Lord General wants to see the Colonials punished."

"I don't believe the Lord General would condone this…but then rumor in the army has a great propensity to grow." Margaret squeezed the Doctor's arm as they reached the side of the wagon. "I do want you to be careful. Take no undue risks, Miss St. Claire."

"I won't. I promise."

Margaret left Doctor Anders' side to say goodbye to Doctor Frasier and then she stood beside the Colonel to watch the wagon ease into the darkness away from the dragoon camp. Tavington held out his arm, and Margaret took it, bundling her shawls around her in the damp air.

"Feels like rain." She said, looking up to see if there were any stars visible or if they were obscured by clouds.

"It smells like it." Tavington commented back. "Will you feel up to riding tomorrow should it rain?"

"I will not melt away in bad weather, Colonel." Margaret stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. "Do you have a plan?"

"Not as yet." Tavington glanced down at the woman beside him as they approached her tent. "I will assign two men to be at your beck and call. They will be your guard over the next few days until we move on. Then you will come with us. You may gather whatever roughage you feel would aid the good doctors."

"Thank You again Colonel." Margaret stopped in front of her tent and turned to face Tavington. "It was very nice of you to invite them to camp….and to allow me to see them. It's been so long…"

"Think nothing of it." He brushed away her thanks idly but even in the darkness, Margaret could see the Colonel's chest puff with pride. Impulsively, she grasped his arm and rose up on her tip toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. She felt him shift, almost as if he didn't know whether to step closer to her or pull away. There was awkwardness there, awkwardness she'd never felt before, either with Tavington or with anyone else. She stepped back and cleared her throat, even as he did. "Sleep well, Margaret."

She watched his shadow retreat before she entered her tent to prepare for bed. Whatever had just transpired between them, she was certain she'd just opened a door through which would come action she was utterly unprepared for.


	25. Obsession

Margaret left the road and wandered into the ditch in search of the plants she hoped to find there. Every so often she knelt to take clippings from plants or to dig out a root. She'd already collected cattail reeds, the great bundle of them were rolled into an oil cloth and tied behind her saddle and one of her escorts was busy gathering more. She'd dug up a number of the roots and had gathered the seed heads to use back at camp. She was grateful for the abundance of cattail because it was so useful as food and medicine. With any luck, the supplies she was gathering today would help see the dragoons through winter.

She'd been at it for days, her collecting of herbs and plants. She'd set out a few taps to collect sap and pitch and she'd also begun collecting roots and leaves to be used in poultices and other medicines while still in camp. Now she and her two young escorts were traveling farther afield in an effort to bring in more supplies for the surgeons. She'd found several willow trees and had taken bark from them: this could be brewed into a tea to alleviate headaches and pain. She'd also keep some for relief of cramps associated with her courses, should she be so afflicted again. There was St. John's Wort to be gathered, the oil of which could be used to disinfect minor wounds, and rose hips, which could be made into a tea and used to treat the standard camp ailments that seemed to spike in winter. She had made a trip to Fort Carolina and harvested the majority of the herbs she'd planted over the summer, cultivating rosemary, thyme, flax, and lavender among other things. Already she had quite the store set aside to be taken to the doctors, but she wanted more. She wanted to gather as much as she could before the winter set in and it would be near impossible to dig out the roots required for so many healing medicines.

It was close to sun down when Margaret returned to camp with her escorts, exhausted and dirty. The men dropped the bundles of cattails from behind their saddles and then wandered towards the picket lines. Margaret took the time to pull the saddle bags from her own horse and carry everything into the tent before she walked her own horse to the picket line. Margaret's breath fogged in the evening air as she walked back towards her tent cataloguing everything that needed to be done to the items she'd collected over the day. There were herbs that needed to be strung and dried and others that needed to be seeded or ground into powders. Doctor Frasier had sent a chest to the dragoon camp that contained numerous drawers and vials for her to place the herbs into. Already it was half full, but there was still more to be done...

* * *

Tavington rode back to the camp, enjoying the chill air and cool blue moonlight. The meeting with the command staff had gone rather well; the Lord General had finally decided to move from the comfort of the fort on the hill and attack the rebels. He'd said months ago that he wanted to be in Virginia but had stalled his army in the face of the rebel troops hiding in the swamps. The Lord General had decided he could no longer wait for the Colonials to come out and fight like men, but would have to fight them on the move. The dragoons would reconnoiter in an effort to clear the way for the infantry, and when the Lord General found ground suitable enough, he would engage the enemy, on his terms. Tavington rode through the camp, the moonlight tinting the canvas of the tents a strange blue color. Some of the tents were illuminated by cook fires out front or the faint glow of candle light from within, most were dark though, the sound of snoring men or quiet conversation coming from them. Tomorrow he'd have to tell them to pack up the camp and move out. They were to rendezvous with a unit of the infantry tomorrow afternoon on the off chance that there was a skirmish. Light flared in one of the tents, the flash drawing his attention. He saw Margaret stretching up to place the globe over the hurricane lamp hanging from the peak of her tent, sheaves of herbs strung up beside it drying, making the tent rather colorful. He saw her rub at her temples and her shoulders sag. Even from across the camp he could see that she was exhausted. He kicked his horse towards the picket line and quickly passed it off to the groom before turning back towards Margaret's tent. He heard her humming as he approached the opening to the tent and for a moment he skulked in the shadows watching her work. She moved gracefully back and forth across the small space, carefully placing small bundles or jars into a chest. He cleared his throat as he stepped into the faint circle of light that spilled from the tent and watched as she started, whirling to face him.

"Who's there?" Margaret shielded her eyes from the lamps within her tent, the better to see into the darkness. She sighed with relief as she saw the red coat and green facings materialize. She hadn't realized how nervous she still was about being away from the safety of the fort, but was slowly growing accustomed to it. She picked up a rag from the table to wipe off her hands when she realized that the colonel was approaching her tent. She saw him breathe deeply as he approached, taking in the scents that wafted from her tent. "Colonel, what can I do for you?"

"Did I startle you?" He watched as a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, the tightness of the scar on her left cheek would more than likely always prevent her from smiling fully as she used to. Regardless, he thought this small smile was far more enchanting than any full smile he ever saw her give.

"Only slightly." She leaned her shoulder against the support pole at the entry of the tent. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be wandering about in the darkness." She touched the back of her fingers to her mouth and yawned. "I thought everyone was asleep."

"As you should be." Margaret laughed at his statement and shook her head.

"There's too much to get done. I was up early this morning and out hunting for supplies and probably will be tomorrow." She yawned again, turning her head away from him. "And there's still so much to get done tonight…."

"You're working too hard." Tavington stepped closer, seeing the dark circles beneath her eyes. "When was the last time you slept through the night?"

"It's been a while." Margaret said on a sigh. "But as I said, there's so much to be done. Six months of work to catch up to."

"Well, you'll have to catch up on the road. We leave tomorrow." Margaret looked back at her tent and the mess of herbs lying about. "Can you be prepared?"

"What choice do I have?" Margaret rubbed at her temples as she turned back towards her work table. "I'll have to be."

"You deserve better than this." Tavington brushed his own fingertips across the scar on her cheek. "You shouldn't have had to go through this, any of this."

"I have gone through this. I wouldn't know what to do with an easy life if it was given to me on a silver platter." Margaret watched as Tavington's eyes hardened. "I'm not sure what you're used to in England, but here in the colonies we all must carve out our lives here in the wilderness; men, women and children."

"And if I were to offer you that easy life? What if you didn't have to do any of this anymore?"

"Pardon me?" Margaret froze a moment as Tavington stared at her.

"Come to Ohio with me, when this is over. Come to Ohio and allow me to give you all that you've been denied in your life." Margaret laughed again, the absurdity of the statement overwhelming her good senses. "You find that amusing?"

"Colonel, I was in the room when his Lordship described the land to you…there's NOTHING in Ohio!" Margaret shook her head, still laughing. If she didn't laugh she was sure she'd collapse from shock. _Ohio? Why would he ask her to follow him to Ohio…unless—no. _ "More work would need to be done carving out an existence in Ohio than needs to be done here. Here at least there are roads!"

Tavington stared a moment at the colonial woman who surprised him on a daily basis. She was right; Ohio was wilderness. It would not have the amenities or supply lines that Carolina did. Margaret turned away from him shaking her head. "That's very kind of you to offer me a place in Ohio, Colonel, but I do enjoy having neighbors and the comforts that town life can offer."

"Town life…" Tavington's mind churned as he thought about the farms the dragoons had destroyed. They'd had kettles, wrought iron hooks, _tools_. They had items that had been repaired by a master craftsman….things that someone bereft of town life wouldn't have.

"Colonel?" Margaret stepped back, the distant look in Tavington's calculating gaze chilled her to the bone. She shouldn't have laughed, she shouldn't have _encouraged_ whatever he thought was between them. She'd sensed that something was growing between them, something dangerous for her. She sensed that he was infatuated with her, but his possessive nature was one that frightened her. He wanted to _own_ her or _keep _her; things she did not want, nor would she permit. She enjoyed the freedoms of widowhood….and she was in love with James Wilkins. And there was the crux of it. The evening before, what little sleep she'd gotten had been colored with the same dream as before with her standing in a clearing with a Captain and a Colonel, and always she drifted towards Wilkins for safety and comfort, and she'd slowly realized, love. She was not willing to pass up a possible life that had love in it for whatever William Tavington thought would pass as secucrity and comfort in the wilderness of the Ohio Territory. Her chaste kiss a few nights before had been all he needed to see affection on her side, something she wasn't sure she felt. She did not necessarily _hate_ Tavington, she just did not feel what she did for James. She felt for Tavington as she might have felt for an elder brother, she enjoyed the banter they shared, and perhaps there was a sort of security to be felt when she was near him, a familial security. "Colonel are you alright?"

"Town life…where would they have traded?" Margaret stared at the Colonel, not comprehending what he was asking. "Where would those dirt farmers have traded for goods?"

"I don't know…." Margaret shook her head, wishing that there was more space to be had in the sparse little tent. Tavington grasped her arm and pulled her from the tent. "Where are you taking me?"

"Colonel?" Wilkins stepped from the darkness as Margaret struggled against Tavington. "Is something amiss?"

"You! Follow along as well!" Tavington barked. James fell in behind them as Margaret dug her heels into the ground and wrenched her arm from Tavington's grasp.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own if you'd only _ask." _Margaret shot at the Colonel, her own temper flaring. "I am _not_ a rag doll to be pulled about."

The moon was behind a cloud, obscuring their features, but Margaret could see well enough to observe Tavington's eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. James was little more than a shadow in her periphery as she stared up at the Colonel, he looked as if he was unsure of whether to step forward and protect her or to get out of the way of what was about to be a very volatile argument. Margaret brushed her hands down her apron, straightening the material where it had become twisted when he'd pulled her from the tent.

"You don't know where the rebel farms are because you weren't there when we punished them." Tavington's level voice slid across the darkness, chilling Margaret more than any violent act or shouting match ever could. "You and Captain Wilkins are local to the area…you would know where they would trade."

"Sir?"

"Things they could not produce themselves on their little farms." Tavington drawled. "You can't tell me that every one of those rebels is an accomplished smith, farmer and carpenter."

"No sir." James answered.

"Now, I need you and Miss St. Claire to root out which towns they might have traded at. There may yet be time to ferret out the Ghost before leaving the area."

"Was that so bloody damn hard?" Margaret asked as she began walking off towards Tavington's tent. "To ask rather than haul me off like some conquering barbarian?" She thought she heard Tavington growl, the sound barely masked by his slowly exhaled breath. She clamped her mouth shut and walked on in silence, deciding it was better to not to provoke a man known for his violence.

On entering Tavington's tent, Margaret noted how clean and absolutely austere it seemed. He set aside ink and paper from reports he'd been writing and spread open a map of the area, setting weights upon the corners to keep it from rolling in on itself. Margaret leaned over the table as Tavington and Wilkins pointed out the farmsteads they had burned out as punishment for aiding rebels.

"There's been no activity recently?" Margaret asked. "No sign of the Ghost and his men?"

"Martin has gone to ground. I believe that our message was delivered, quite emphatically." Tavington stared at Margaret as she focused on the map.

"So then word reached them…" She muttered as she began moving around the table to better see the map."

"Where would they go for their sundries? Where would they take their crops to sell or to barter; their livestock?" Tavington pressed.

"These farms would more than likely have traded at Georgetown." Margaret indicated a series of small farms near a river. "They're rather isolated."

"But these here, they'd have either gone to Acworth or Pembroke." Margaret leaned over the map and studied the farms where James pointed as he continued to speak. "Acworth is probably the better choice…the town is still rough, the men we've been fighting have been of the swamps, they know how to survive in the blackwater regions…."

An image slipped into Margaret's head as she studied the map. She saw the cage that the rebel captives had been held in at Fort Carolina. She thought of the boys that were there, the quality of their coats and thought of what she remembered of Acworth. As far as she knew, there was no church in Acworth, none that would draw a well-spoken, mild mannered reverend.

"It's been some time since I was in Acworth, but if what Captain Wilkins says is true, it's still a wilderness township."

"Yes." James ventured cautiously. "Why?"

"Have they established a church?" When neither answered Margaret pointed at Pembroke. "There's a reverend that fights beside Martin. I know because he was one of the men captured and held at Fort Carolina. While he was present at the tribunal that sentenced me to….the snakes…he did not condone it."

"How do you know all that?" Wilkins asked.

"Someone suggested that I was not brave enough to confront my abusers." Margaret glared at Tavington as she said this. "I saw the priest amongst the prisoners and thought he'd be a good man to discuss my problems with. A reverend is educated, calm, and able to give advice." She swallowed as she thought over the night she'd spoken with the reverend. "I recognized his voice. We spoke, but I was still conflicted. It's one of the reasons I was so angry that they were granted clemency, knowing that those that were responsible for my ordeal were going to walk free while I remained at the fort."

"And you're certain he was truly a reverend?"

"No man not of God speaks the way that man did." Margaret placed her finger over the place on the map marked _Pembroke._ "There were others, better dressed—_softer_—I thought even then that they were more gently bred. Boys and men used to living in a town with like-minded people—God fearing and well off."

"And you think Acworth would not breed such folk?" Tavington asked watching as Margaret turned the facts over in her head.

"The first structure built in Acworth was a still-house that doubled as a Tavern." Margaret straightened as she stared at Tavington. "I haven't been to Pembroke in years, but I remember them constructing a rather large church as a focal point to the village, as well as having several merchants, carpenters and smiths of varying skills." She tapped her finger against the map over the little town. "I think Pembroke is your answer."

Tavington studied the map and nodded, Pembroke would not take them far from the route intended by the Lord General. The issue then was finding a way to punish the people of Pembroke for aiding rebels.

"You may return to your tent, Miss St. Claire." Tavington muttered as he studied the map. "Be prepared to leave tomorrow morning."

"Of course, Colonel." Margaret turned and heard the Colonel dismiss Wilkins as well. She waited for the Captain in the shadows beyond the Colonel's tent and watched as James took quick steps to join her. He whisked her into the deeper shadows, turning to face her once they were out of ear shot.

"Are you alright?" Margaret nodded, belatedly answering in the affirmative when she realized James wouldn't be able to hear her head nod in the darkness. "He didn't hurt you?"

"No, James I'm fine." She shivered in the chill air and sighed. "He didn't hurt me; I'm not made of glass you know."

"I understand that, but sometimes when he's in a rage…" Wilkins trailed off, not wanting to speak ill of a commanding officer.

"I'm fine." Margaret reassured him. "What I want to know is what you think he intends to do at Pembroke?"

"He burned the farms…I imagine he'll burn the town-punish them for supplying the rebels by making sure there are no supplies to be used."

"I hope so." Margaret sighed. "I hate war. I hate the loss…I'm just not sure of any of this anymore." She shivered again, more violently this time, fully aware that she'd been pulled from her tent without being able to grab a shawl or cloak. "I'm freezing and I have a great deal to get done before tomorrow."

"Shall I escort you?"

"I'll be fine." Margaret crossed her arms over her middle, trying to stay warm. She jumped up and down a few times chafing her arms as she turned. "Good night."

James watched her shadow scuttle across the dark camp towards her own tent before he turned to return to the officer's tent. They would have a long night that would slip into a long day if the look in the Colonel's eye had been any indication of things to come.


	26. Open Fire

Margaret knelt to gather acorns from the leaf strewn forest floor. Her satchel already bulging with nuts. She had every intention of grinding the acorns into meal to supplement what flour the army was able to buy. She'd found chestnuts earlier, the fuzzy pods tucked in a separate bag that she intended to hull later. She had every intention of roasting them when she and her escorts returned to camp; it would be an excellent addition to whatever they were able to forage for supper that evening. Margaret started to hum, singing softly as she moved through the underbrush. She'd sent her guards off hunting elsewhere. She was tired of their constant hovering, and the constant questioning over what she was gathering and why. She heard a shot ring out in the distance and hoped they'd managed to bring down game of some sort for dinner. Like all of their stores, what the army provided was woefully inadequate and quite often was rancid or moldy. Besides that they were all tired of salt pork and brine.

Margaret took a deep breath and closed her eyes in the late afternoon light. Her mother had often told her that her nose would be a better judge of what was nearby than her eyes. First and foremost, she smelled water. Not only had she watched dark clouds build all day, but she knew there was a creek nearby. If there was a calm enough spot in the creek she might be able to find duck potato tubers. Next she smelled wild onion and somewhere nearby garlic. She went in search of the two plants but could only find the wild onion. She quickly dug out a few bulbs and tucked them in her satchel. Her thirst grew stronger, especially with the thought of all that she could do with what she had gathered. She moved towards the sound of rushing water and walked some distance to find a calm spot where, as luck would have it, she found a stand of arrowheads growing. Gently she sifted through the soft mud and came up with handfuls of the tubers which gave the plant its other name of duck potato. Her satchel was already full to bursting and she quickly untied her apron strings and laid the material on the bank, the better to harvest the tubers and take them back to camp without making everything else soggy. She stood when she was done, wiping at her brow and noticed the lateness of the hour. The sun was easing below the horizon, painting the sky bright orange and pink in the west. She heaved a sigh and began her journey back towards where the infantry was encamped.

Moving with the infantry was a great deal different than moving with the dragoons. Margaret had all the time she wanted to move amongst the trees and gather what she wanted and would still have time to catch up with the soldiers at the end of each day. She had been dispensed with when the dragoons had moved off towards Pembroke, the Colonel telling her to remain with the men of the infantry.

"Continue with your gathering." Tavington had snarled at her. "You'll just be in the way at Pembroke." He'd kicked his horse away from her, not even permitting her to nod that she'd heard or to say anything to him. She wondered what his plans were at Pembroke briefly as she followed the smell of smoke back to the camp.

It had been several days since she'd seen the dragoons. They'd gone off towards Pembroke while she and the infantrymen had moved with the rest of the column of the army towards the place that the Lord General had selected as a rendezvous and potential battleground. She was apprehensive about the battle. No one doubted that one was coming…it had been far too long since there had been a fight, and many knew that the Lord General had been embarrassed by the rebel troops, though few knew the specifics of it. When Margaret arrived at the camp she quickly built up her fire and began the arduous task of shelling the chestnuts, using the monotonous task as a way of relieving her mind's troubles and keeping the darkness of impending battle at bay.

* * *

Margaret hissed as she pricked her finger on the spiny hull of a chestnut for what had to be the hundredth time. The light was failing and her eyes were tired; she rubbed at them with the back of her wrist and went back to work on the chestnuts. She wanted to get them hulled before dawn when she knew they'd all move on and the process would start again. A horse whinnied nearby and Margaret looked up to see shadowy figures on horseback moving into the camp. She watched from her place at the fire as the dragoons rode their horses through the camp towards where the picket line would be. They looked tired. Their bright coats were tarnished and sooty with ash and several had soot on their faces. A few had gone so far as to tie their cravats around their mouths.

Something wasn't right.

Margaret tossed the last chestnut hull into the fire, listening to it crack and pop. The dragoons, usually boisterous on a return from a successful mission seemed subdued, cementing in Margaret's mind that something ominous had occurred in Pembroke. Margaret watched as the dragoons moved through the camp towards cook fires and their own tents. She moved amongst them, few of them acknowledging her, even when she greeted them. She found James still standing at the picket line, slowly brushing down his horse.

"What happened?" Margaret crossed her arms and stepped back as James turned quickly to face her. There was a haunted look in his eyes.

"Go away." His voice was flat and hoarse. Margaret had never heard him sound so defeated.

"No. Are you ill? What happened?"

"What have I told you about fishing for information you don't want to know?"

"I think you need to tell me what happened out there." Margaret hardly recognized her own voice she was so filled with dread. "If you don't tell me, I'll find one of the other men to tell me."

"Don't…"

"Then tell me!" Margaret ignored the horse as it side stepped, nervous at her ardent tone. She advanced quickly to stand at James' shoulder, grasping his arm and trying to turn him to face her. "What happened? Why is everyone so upset? What happened in Pembroke that is so different than any other farm you've burned out?"

"We didn't burn the town." Margaret had to stand close to hear what James said, his voice was so quiet.

"I don't understand….I saw the soot on your coats." She pointed at the great black streak that marred James' coat. "Something was set on fire….you've still got soot on your face." She reached up to rub at the grime on his chin, brushing her fingers over the stubble that had grown over the last few days.

"The Church." Margaret froze, the words seeming to nail her in place. "We burned the church…" James' voice broke and he turned away from her again; Margaret gave him space to collect himself. She wanted to comfort him…in the end, even though the church was the house of God, was it not only a building? Could it not be rebuilt just as any other building was rebuilt? She knew for a fact that churches were built, destroyed and rebuilt all the time in the old world, and churches were constantly going up in the new world, as the Pembroke church was surely evident of. Why then were the men reacting so strongly to the burning of the church?

"James…" She began in an effort to voice her opinion.

"I need time Margaret….please." She saw James' shadow turn to face her. "I've done something horrible. I followed orders, but my conscience cries out against it. I need time to think and gather my thoughts."

Margaret backed away slowly. She didn't understand and knew she never would unless someone told her what had happened in Pembroke. She knew it had to be worse than merely burning a church.

She wandered back to the camp and found O'Dell and Edwards pushing food around their plates absently, barely eating. She moved silently around the cook fires, seeing that many of the men were deep in thought and decidedly silent.

Margaret sat to supper with several of the men, but none of them spoke, not about Pembroke. Glancing around, Margaret realized that several members of the high command were not present.

"Where are Major Borden and Colonel Tavington?"

"They took a different route. Some of the men weren't feeling well after…after…"

"After?" Margaret pressed, wondering if finally she'd learn what had occurred in Pembroke.

"After what we did." Hooker whispered.

"What, burning the church?" Margaret tried to say it casually but heard the catch in her own voice.

"There's more to it than that miss…." O'Dell said. "Not that you need to worry on it."

Margaret narrowed her eyes at the men sitting around her before she stood and moved away from the fire. If they weren't going to tell her what was troubling them so deeply, she wouldn't press the issue-for the time being.

* * *

Sleep eluded Margaret that night. She tossed and turned and what little sleep she got was interrupted by the restlessness of the camp. She heard men moving about, and every once in a while heard one of them cry out, as if they were reliving some horrible event. She rose and dressed, glancing outside to gauge what time it might be; if it was close to dawn or the middle of the night. She saw no subtle lightening of the Eastern sky and decided it must be the middle of the night. Slowly, she made her way through the camp, noticing that many of the men were still awake, staring into fires, completely unaware of their surroundings. Margaret moved quietly and soon came upon the place that had been claimed by the junior officers as theirs. James sat on the ground, staring into the banked coals of a fire. "May I join you?" James jumped and reached for the knife at his side but relaxed as she stepped into the faint light and he recognized her.

"Margaret…you….you should be sleeping." Margaret knelt beside James, watching as he reached beside him and took a pull off a bottle of rum.

"I could say the same for you. Where did you get that?"

"Doesn't matter." The two of them sat in silence for some time before James turned towards her. "Why are you here?"

"I couldn't sleep….It seems I'm not the only one." She heard someone in a tent nearby toss and turn, mumbling in their sleep. "Is it always this way after? Or is it because we are going in to battle?"

"Battle? There wasn't one..." James sipped from the bottle again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's to say there _will_ _be_ one?"

"That's what we're moving toward. That's why we're here. Isn't it?"

"Yes." James looked at her, his eyes glittering in the faint light. He was silent for a long time before he finally choked out a question. "Can you forgive me, Margaret?"

"Forgive you for what?" Margaret's heart stilled and she felt as if she could not draw breath, so worried was she over what he was about to say.

"For what happened at Pembroke." James' voice broke and Margaret drew closer, kneeling beside James in such a way that she could face him.

"Tell me what happened." Margaret watched the haunted look come back into his eyes and he started to shake his head. "Don't hide it from me. Please James…whatever happened is obviously tearing at your soul."

"My soul is damned." James said suddenly. "What we did….what we did was not honorable."

"What. Did. You. Do?"

"We burned the church."

"Churches can be rebuilt." Margaret sighed. "It's only a building."

"We burned all of Pembroke with the Church."

"So you fired the town." Margaret tried to follow the drunken logic pouring from James. She didn't want him to stop; she wanted him to unburden whatever was destroying him.

"Just the people…Tavington ordered them all to gather in the church." Margaret pulled her hand away from James' face as if she'd been burned. She watched James' face, realizing he was re-living the burning of the church. "He wanted them to give up the location of Martin, give up how they were supplying them."  
"And?" Margaret choked out her question.

"One man came forward…fingered a merchant that had been supplying Martin."

"What did Tavington do?"

"Nothing…Tavington rode away. He ordered me to burn the church, with all the people still inside." The agony of what he'd done poured from James and he began to sob quietly. Margaret froze for but a moment before she reached out and pulled him into her embrace. Slowly he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her as he wept.

"Oh, James…" She murmured as he calmed, "this isn't your fault."

"I threw the first torch."

"Under orders." Margaret leaned back to gaze into his eyes. "You threw that torch under orders."

"Doesn't matter…."

"Yes it does."

"How can it? They're dead…they're all dead…" James stared beyond her into the dying coals of the fire. Margaret sat beside him, pulling the hem of her petticoats around her ankles and leaning into James' side. His arm curled slowly around her as they continued to stare into the deepening darkness.

Something roused her. She wasn't sure how late it was, but the air was chill, she could barely see her breath fog in the in the dim red coals of the fire before them. Margaret yawned, the air growing chill as a log snapped loudly in the fire before them. Something flared briefly and Margaret took the time to gaze up at James. His eyes were closed and as she listened, she could hear his steady breaths. Suddenly his features twisted and he gave a half shout in his sleep. Margaret slid away slowly watching him as he tossed in his sleep. Margaret flinched back as James suddenly jolted, sitting bolt upright with a shout.

"Margaret…." His voice was hoarse as he finally settled his gaze on her.

"James…"

"You shouldn't be here." He slowly pushed himself upright and loomed over her as she knelt in the darkness. "Go to sleep."

"James..."

"We leave early tomorrow…we're to rendezvous with the Lord General." James disappeared into a distant tent, leaving Margaret alone in the darkness. She leaned forward and picked up the half empty rum bottle, corking it and taking with her. Not only did James not need to imbibe further, fueling his demons, but with an impending battle she might need it to help the wounded; for surely there would be wounded.


	27. Worry

A/N: Sorry for the delay. I was experiencing computer issues and basically had to start from scratch once I got the beast back from repairs. Thanks for being patient.

* * *

Margaret walked along with the infantry, the atmosphere far better than the sullen one surrounding the dragoons. James Wilkins had ignored her for the duration of their march, had hardly looked at her, much less spoken to her. She knew he was still battling the demons that were haunting him because of Pembroke. What she didn't understand was why he had confided in her about the incident and was now ignoring her. It was as if he thought of her as an empty vessel; one into which he'd poured all the negativity of Pembroke and now wished to lock her away. An angry spark flickered to life within her as she thought of all the negative experiences of her adult life and how after each one she was shut away. She was shut away after her husband died. She was practically shut away after her mother died. When the rebels captured and tortured her she had been shut away inside Fort Carolina. Now James had laid the burden of Pembroke at her feet and wanted to shut her away. _No more._ She would no longer permit herself to be shut away; she was made of sterner stuff than that. That's why she'd gone to the surgeons at the rendezvous.

"A battlefield hospital is a grisly place my dear." Margaret followed behind the surgeon, quickening her pace to keep up with the long legged stride of the man as he walked towards his tent. He held in his hand a crumpled letter of recommendation that Margaret had been given by Doctor Frasier. "What makes you—or Doctor Frasier—think that you're able to handle it?"

"Childbed is just as grisly, sir." Margaret said, setting down her herb laden satchel on the Doctor's work bench. "I'm not unaccustomed to blood. Besides that, I know a great deal about herbs that can help in healing. I'm certain Doctor Frasier is confident in my abilities since he and Doctor Anders saw them first hand at Middleton Place."

"Middleton Place was not a field hospital." The man snapped. "And a battlefield is not child bed. It may as well be a butcher shop for all that the men look like men when they're brought to me."

"I worked a farm as well….I've seen hogs butchered. Helped in it a time or two." Margaret's gaze was steady as she watched the surgeon size her up.

"I'll give those two old men credit for one thing…they didn't lie about your mettle." The man crossed his arms, a smile touching his eyes. "I'll be glad to have you. Too few hands about during a battle and too few with the stomach for the blood."

"I collected a great many herbs and roots while we marched." Margaret crossed over to her satchel and began going through what she'd brought with the field surgeon, allowing him to stow many of them in his own medicine chest.

That was when Colonel Tavington had ridden up to the surgery tents.

While Tavington was helped to the bench by an aide, Margaret stepped up to the entrance, waiting to see if she'd be called on. The aide stared at her for a moment and then sneered at her.

"Should you be here miss?" Tavington looked up, focusing on Margaret as he pulled his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. The surgeon's aide stood in front of Margaret, glaring down at her. "This hardly seems the place for a camp follower…"

Margaret's face turned red, whether from anger or embarrassment, she was uncertain.

"She's no camp follower…" Tavington hissed behind the aide as he shifted, Margaret watched as fresh blood dampened the bloom on Tavington's shirt.

"And you should lie down and be still." Margaret's voice was as cold as Tavington's eyes looked. They glared at one another a moment.

"I'll remain sitting thank you." The aide watched the exchange, eyes wide, as the Colonel and the woman continued to banter.

"Suit yourself." Margaret shrugged and turned back to the work bench, taking up a rag to staunch the flow of blood.

"Miss, I really think you ought to leave leave…" But Margaret brushed past the man and held the rag to Tavington's side, pressing hard to sop up the blood as it flowed. She relished the hiss of pain that escaped Tavington's lips.

"Aye, she should." The surgeon said as he came into hearing. "But we've been offered a test of sorts and I'd rather see if she can handle herself before we're up to our eyeballs in blood and bullets." The man motioned for Margaret to move so he could see the wound. Tavington hissed again as the doctor probed the area around it. "So far, she's doing what you should have done." It was the Aide's turn to blush. "Clean the wound Madame, we'll return momentarily."

The aide and the surgeon left the tent as Margaret turned to gather up the wash basin and rag. She added four thieves' vinegar to the water, a concoction she'd distilled while at Fort Carolina. The herbs and vinegar were known to prevent illness and was something her mother had sworn by when cleaning wounds.

"What is that?" Tavington asked as he watched her swirl the mixture into the water.

"Nothing that will kill you, though it would seem you deserve it." Margaret turned back and wrung the soaked rag over the basin before she began scrubbing at the crusted blood around Tavington's wound.

"What would make you say that?" Colonel Tavington watched the set line of the woman's jaw as she worked. "What has turned you so against me?"

"There is a long list of things that have been turning me against you, Colonel." Margaret swiped the rag, none too gently, over the bullet wound, relishing in the sharp indrawn breath from Tavington. "It culminated with Pembroke."

"Ah…which of them told you?"

"That doesn't matter." Margaret stood and stared into the Colonel's eyes. "Those people were innocent."

"You know this for certain?"

"Women and Children, Colonel!" Margaret glared at the man, her temper boiling over. "They were women and children, living their lives in a war torn country. Whatever did they do to you to deserve being burned alive?"

"There are times I forget you're French…" Margaret stood back and stared at the Colonel, staring icily at her. "Your accent is more pronounced when you're angry…"

"What has that to do with anything?" Margaret flung the cloth into the basin, heedless of the water splashing everywhere. Tavington watched as she angrily wrung the cloth out and came at him to once again scrub his wound.

"What has perceived innocence or guilt to do with anything? They were traitors."

Margaret stopped what she was doing and stared into the Colonel's cold gray eyes. The realization that he was absolutely convinced that he was in the right slammed into her like a thunder bolt. She glared at him, mouth agape, hand upon her hip, completely ignoring the damp rag dripping water into the folds of her skirt.

"You're mad…" Tavington narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Margaret shook her head and dunked the rag back in the water and finished washing the Colonel's wound. "The surgeon is going to have to dig that bullet out of you. How did you get shot?" She asked as she turned to set the basin back on the work table.

"We were ambushed." Tavington watched the scout move around the little space. His side burned. It had taken him hours to ride from the little creek where they'd been ambushed to the camp. Margaret leaned against the table and crossed her arms, waiting for the rest of the story. "I was the only one to survive."

"Who ambushed you?"

"The Ghost's men. It would seem my strike at Pembroke was right on the mark."

"How do you know that?" Margaret stood tall, watching as the surgeon came in with several tools. "How do you know it was the Ghost's men?"

"His brat died trying to stab me in the back." Margaret was brushed aside as the surgeon set to work digging the ball from the Colonel's side. The process was oddly silent. Margaret watched as the Colonel held his breath as the surgeon dug into his side in search of the lead ball.

"Miss St. Claire, I assume you stitch." The man said over his shoulder, wiping bloody hands on a rag.

"Of course."

"Close that hole. Wrap the Colonel's wounds." The surgeon and the aid left the tent again and Margaret was left to suture the wound. Just as with the washing of the wound, Margaret was not gentle.

"You hate me." Tavington said, hissing as she pushed the needle into his skin.

"What would make you say that?" Margaret did not look up from the neat and even stitches she was using to close the wound in the Colonel's side.

"Do you have any bloody idea how much that hurts?" Margaret stopped a moment and glanced at Tavington before she answered.

"Oh I think I do." She deliberately brushed across the skin on her cheek where the scar on her face stood out bright pink. Tavington averted his gaze and let her finish in silence. She took a folded piece of linen off the work table and held it to the colonel's freshly closed wound, pressing into the fresh sutures and watching the Colonel blanche. "I remember how much they hurt getting taken out as well." She whispered. "Hold this here."

Tavington did as he was instructed and Margaret quickly wrapped linen around his waist, knotting the binding opposite the bullet hole. She stepped back and watched as the Colonel leaned forward and reached for his coat. He pulled up short, the sutures stretching as he did and pulling painfully. She walked slowly around the table and picked up the garment herself, shaking out its folds and holding it up so Tavington could put it on.

"It's got blood on it." She said absently, glancing at the stain on the wool. "I could clean it for you."

"You'd do that for a murderer?" Tavington snarled as he let Margaret slide the coat up his arms.

"I don't like what you did, that's true." Margaret said stepping back. "I don't have to. I've discovered that my opinion on such things rarely matters."

"What if I told you that your opinion does matter?" Tavington glanced over his shoulder as he tried to pull his unbound hair out of his collar.

"I wouldn't believe you." Margaret stood on tip toe and helped the Colonel slip his hair from beneath the coat. Tavington turned stiffly to face her. "I certainly wouldn't speak my mind. You might have me locked up someplace and set it on fire. You might have me killed if you don't like my way of thinking."

"You aren't a traitor…"

"Je suis Francais." Margaret said. "Je suis un colon. Voulez-vous me tuer pour ça?"

"You're treading dangerous ground." Margaret glared up at the Colonel as he stared down at her. "You should have a care with that tongue of yours."

"So I've been told." Margaret made to clean up the mess made from mending the Colonel's wound but found herself hauled back to face the Colonel.

"And yet you never listen."

"Unhand me Colonel." Margaret glared up at the man who'd turned her world upside down. She had half convinced herself that the Colonel had rescued her from the monotonous life she'd endured on the Miller farm. She'd come to believe that he'd placed her on the road to Hell instead. "I've already suffered enough because of you. You're the reason the Ghost exists, you're the reason I began spying. You _lead _your men into damnation and I followed blindly behind. You've condemned us all…but no more." She yanked her arm free of his grasp and nodded towards the opening of the tent. She tapped into the pool of strength she'd found when her journey with the Colonel had first begun, the one that wouldn't let her back down from a challenge or be cowed. "Don't over exert yourself or you'll tear those stitches out. And come back tomorrow for a new dressing." Margaret turned her back on Tavington and began tidying the work space, steadfastly ignoring him.

"Madame." She waited until Tavington left the tent before heaving a sigh of relief. She had no idea why she insisted on provoking Tavington, but she always seemed to say or do the wrong things around him. She leaned heavily on the work table, inhaling deeply before she turned to get rid of the dirty rags.

* * *

Margaret pulled her shawl about her shoulders as she walked up the lane of the camp. Men sat around fires talking quietly while others set up tents farther beyond. Margaret heard the pickets shouting an "all's well" as the watches prepared to change. The word 'bustling' came to mind. An army camp before a battle was quite a bit more active than a fortress. Margaret approached her small tent in the dragoons' area of the massive camp and ducked inside, sitting heavily on her cot. It had been a long day, helping the surgeon with mundane tasks and proving her mettle. Most of all, her confrontation with the Colonel played itself over and over in her mind. She curled up on her small cot and stared at the blank canvas opposite her. Though her body was sore and fatigued, her mind would not let her rest. Over and over she played her encounter with the Colonel and added it to the past year she'd spent with the man. He had challenged her, forced her to rise to the occasion and adapt. He only rarely showed affection or kindness towards her, and when he did, he seemed uncomfortable about it. Margaret sighed and lay on her back, throwing her arm over her face, wishing for sleep.

"Margaret?" James' voice drifted through the canvas. "Are you awake?"

Margaret stood and tossed back the tent flap. "James?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No." Margaret could barely make out James' shape in the faint light from the surrounding fires. "I can't sleep."

"Neither could I."

"Do you think there will be a battle?" Margaret asked, stepping into the chill night, hugging her middle in an effort to stay warm. "Do you think the armies will come together?"

"Yes." Someone shouted nearby and Margaret and James heard what sounded like a fist fight break out somewhere in the darkness beyond them. Sergeants yelled, attempting to break up the brawling men. "They fight each other." Margaret muttered.

"Their ire is up. They fear what's coming."

"Do you?"

"Always. More so now." Margaret ducked back in her tent and lit the small tallow candle, the yellow glow lighting the bare walls of her tent, she motioned James inside and motioned for him to sit on the cot.

"Why?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Margaret scowled and sat beside him.

"You told me about Pembroke."

"Margaret…"

"I'm not digging. I'm just tired of being shut away when bad things happen."

"No one shut you away…."

"You did!" Margaret flared. "You've ignored me James; whether you realized it or not. You spoke of Pembroke and then tried to shut me out."

"I didn't mean to." Margaret watched as James pulled at a loose thread at the knee of his trousers. "I just want to leave it behind me…though I know it will darken my path the rest of my days."

"The Colonel is convinced that what he did was right."

"You've spoken with him?"

"I bound his wound." Margaret pulled her knees up, tucking the hem of her skirt beneath her feet and hugging her legs to her.

"They all died…everyone who was with him." Margaret glanced at James from the corner of her eye. "Borden is gone…Tavington wants me to be his second."

"What?" Margaret's head came off her knee as she turned to stare at James.

"He needs a second in command…most of the senior officers rode with him. He trusts me more than some of the others." Margaret's heart lurched. If James were to be Tavington's second in command, it would put him in grave danger. James covered Margaret's hand where she'd begun to twist the fabric of her skirt, pulling the fabric from her grasp and covering her hand with his larger one.

"You're worried."

"OF course I am!" Margaret pulled her hand from his grasp. "You only just told me that you're certain the armies will come together in battle. And then you tell me you'll be the second highest ranked dragoon on the field? How am I to not worry?"

James didn't have an answer for her and Margaret's mind was flying with this new information. They sat in silence while the little flame on Margaret's candle grew smaller and duller. Margaret's heart ached, she couldn't bear the possibility of losing James.

"I…." James trailed off, cleared his throat and then stood. "I'm not sure why I came…I needed to tell you."

Margaret opened her mouth to say more but James was already leaving, slipping into the darkness beyond and farther away from her.


	28. Eve of Battle

Margaret spent the next day with the surgeon and his aides preparing for battle. The fact that it was coming was inevitable; it was the _when_ that was still undecided. Margaret was rolling bandages in the surgery when Colonel Tavington came in. The surgeon's aide was quick to escort the Colonel to a work table and help re-dress the Colonel's wound. Margaret glanced only long enough to note that her stitches had held in spite of the Colonel's obvious efforts to over exert himself. The wound had wept and blood was evident on his shirt. Margaret turned her attention back to the fabric in front of her, tearing another length to make a bandage.

"You will be missed tomorrow colonel." Margaret glanced up to see Cornwallis ducking into the surgeon's tent.

"Missed my lord?" Tavington glanced up at the Lord General as well. Margaret didn't know that Cornwallis had arrived in the camp, she'd heard none of the usual pomp that accompanied the arrival of the high command. From the carefully schooled look on Tavington's face, he was just as shocked to see the Lord General.

"Your wound."

"It's nothing." Tavington snapped, pushing the aide away and rising from the bench. Anger crackled in his blue eyes, so vibrant that Margaret very nearly sank away. She glanced between the two men…both radiating anger and frustration that she wasn't sure she understood.

"I stand on the eve of the greatest victory of my career. Don't fail me." Cornwallis whispered. His calculated words falling like shards of glass between the two men.

"My efforts in no small measure brought you here." Tavington whispered back. The hair on the back of Margaret's neck stood up. _Pembroke_ was the reason this battle would occur. Men were going to fight and die because The Butcher couldn't leave The Ghost alone.

"I grant you that small measure in spite of your failure to deliver The Ghost to me." Margaret kept her head down and her ears turned to the conversation, pretending to be invisible as she slowly rolled the bandage lest she draw attention to herself by ripping another length of material.

"Thus far." Tavington answered. Margaret very nearly shook her head at the foolishness of the statement. How long did Tavington think the Ghost would allow the cat and mouse game to continue now that Tavington had killed another of his children. Their fight had to be coming to a head-soon.

"I will not tolerate a premature charge born of your eagerness for glory. WAIT for my order." Cornwallis turned away from Colonel Tavington and made to exit the tent. "Or you may abandon any hope of Ohio." Margaret glanced up and watched Tavington's face twist with anger at the threat. Tavington stood a moment longer in the middle of the field hospital before he turned his attention to her.

"Well."

"Well indeed." Margaret and Tavington stared at one another for some time before the surgeon's aide came back in to help Tavington with his jacket. Margaret turned away, suddenly uncomfortable being near the Colonel.

* * *

Margaret slipped between the tents that evening listening to the hum of an army camp on the eve of battle. She found James sitting outside his tent cleaning his weapons, checking over the moving pieces and making sure his cartridges were prepared and his powder supplied.

"Is it always like this?" James' head snapped up at her question. To him, she seemed to materialize from the darkness, much like a specter.

"Is what always like this?"

"Battle?" Margaret shuddered as she said the word, the images the word conjured were beyond what she was prepared for. James didn't answer, just watched as she rounded the small fire, barely stepping into the ring of light given by the embers. She stopped at his shoulder and glanced down at his hands as they worked methodically over the pistol. "This is the first major engagement…."

"I suppose it is like this." James glanced into the darkness as she knelt beside him. "Some men sleep deeply, others are just….well." He indicated the pistol in his hand.

"Preparing?" James nodded and looked down at Margaret. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Stay away."

"You know I'm to help at the field hospital." Margaret shook her head. "My bargain with the Colonel still holds."

"It shouldn't." James spat. He grasped her hand in his, feeling how cold her fingers were. He quickly set his pistol on the ground and placed both his hands around hers.

"It was the bargain I made James. I was taught to always keep my promises."

"Then make me one now…." He pulled her closer, cupping her cheek so he could see her eyes. "Promise me that you won't do anything rash tomorrow."

"Can you promise me the same?" James glanced away; it was all the answer she needed. "I won't do anything intentionally dangerous. I plan on staying in the field hospital and doing what I can to bring comfort to those brought in. But _you_ James….you're going to be in the thick of it."

"I have no choice."

"Neither of us do." Margaret heaved a sigh, her breath fogging in the freezing night air. "He's been ordered to wait for the Lord General's command tomorrow. I don't think he will if he sees that man on the field."

"The Ghost?"

"He has a name….why glorify him with that childish nickname?" Margaret hissed. "Ben Martin…he's just a man."

"So is the colonel."

"So are you." Margaret stood so she could look down into James' eyes. "Just…" Margaret gulped wetly, tears coming suddenly to her eyes as she stared down at a man she'd grown to love. "Just come back to me….please?"

Before James could respond she'd pulled her hands from his and dashed into the darkness.

Margaret didn't sleep at all that night, tossing and turning on her small camp bed, her mind conjuring nightmarish images of blood and battle. The sky was still dark when she heard the first of the troops begin moving out to take their spots on the battlefield. Margaret got up and moved between the tents in the morning fog, watching as units came together in crisp lines, their boots crunching on the frost covered grass. She heard horses scream and snort, the sounds echoing through the still morning.

"Miss St. Claire!" Margaret turned when she heard her name shouted and moved towards a cook fire, the smell of bacon frying hitting her long before anything else. "Will you break your fast with us?" She glanced around the fire at men who had become her friends….O'Dell, Hooker and Edwards among them.

"I don't know that I much feel like eating."

"None of us do….better to go into battle on a full stomach though." Hooker said quietly. Margaret took a seat and accepted the fried oatcake and bacon. She nibbled at the oatcake and watched the others. What if she never saw them again? What if this was the last moment they would ever share together? She set the oatcake down and stared at each man, thinking about all the moments they'd shared together, picking out moments where they'd stopped being faceless dragoons she moved amongst and when they'd become her friends.

"Eat up miss…you'll need your strength as much as the rest of us." Edwards said quietly. Margaret nodded slowly and ate what they had put on her plate, even though it tasted like ash in her mouth and felt heavy in her stomach. They eventually rose from the small circle and moved towards the corral.

"Miss St. Claire…" Hooker came forward with a bundle of letters in his hand. "I was hoping you'd see this delivered to my wife…should the worst occur."

"And this…to my Mother." Edwards said, handing her a similar packet. "She lives in Charlestown, north of Broad Street."

Margaret felt as if she couldn't breath as she took the packets of letters from the men. She nodded silently, completely incapable of speaking.

"Thank You miss…." The men all touched the brims of their helmets as one by one they turned away and went to where their horses waited. Margaret stood back from the road as the dragoons formed into two long straight lines, Tavington and Wilkins in the lead. Neither of them so much as glanced at her, while others slowly nodded to her. Quickly, she tucked the letters into her apron pocket and made for the field hospital….they were right about one thing; she had quite a bit of work ahead of her this day.


	29. Blood and Thunder

Margaret helped the surgeons load boxes of bandages and sponges into the backs of wagons, preparing to go where the field hospital would be established.

"Close enough for the wounded to stagger to us, far enough behind the lines to be out of the line of fire." The surgeon said. Margaret watched as tables and benches were loaded into a wagon with tents and boxes of bandages. Finally they were ready to move out and Margaret was boosted up onto the tailgate of the wagon. They moved slowly, the roads choked with lines of men marching towards battle. Margaret stared stonily ahead, trying hard not to think about what these men were going to look like in a few short hours. Eventually they reached a site that was suitable. A stream ran at the base of a small hill and the area was protected by tall trees. The ground had been cleared of trees…someone had intended to build on this land or farm it, now it would be host to a field hospital. A few tents were set up, but for the most part tables were just thrown up under the open sky. Margaret was charged with filling large half barrels with water from the stream running nearby.

"You might as well get used to it…you'll probably be running water to the injured men all day." Margaret picked up two buckets and made trek after trek to the stream. She was emptying the last bucket into the barrel; one that would be used to douse bloody hands and instruments, when a deep rumbling sound shook the very air. Margaret glanced in the direction she thought the sound had come from.

"The opening barrage…" One of the surgeons said behind her. "It won't be long now."

Margaret's hands shook as she plaited her hair and then wound it into a bun at the nape of her neck and then knotted a kerchief over it to keep everything covered and off her face.

"Are you nervous ma'am?" A young aide asked as he filled some canteens from the big barrel.

"Why should I be?" Margaret answered, surprised at how calm she sounded. "We are far behind the lines of battle."

"I'm nervous. I've never seen the wounded before." Margaret stared at the young aide, realizing for the first time that he was really just a boy, not so very much older than Edward.

"You'll do fine, I'm certain of it." Margaret gave the boy what she hoped was a reassuring smile as she turned her eyes once again towards the thunderous sound of battle.

* * *

The surgeon had been right. It didn't take long at all for men to begin staggering into the little clearing, many holding dirty rags to bleeding wounds. At first it was manageable. Margaret helped to triage the men and move them to available doctors. Some she bandaged herself. But soon the number of wounded men began to increase; the trickle became a torrent, which soon turned into a flood.

Margaret staggered across the clearing and pushed her hair from her face with the back of a hand sticky with blood and the grime of battle. How long could it go on? How many more men and boys would be torn apart in a fight that none of them truly understood? She wanted to rail at them. _For king and country; whose country!? Why should they die for a King unable and unwilling to lead them into battle?_

There was a roar of sound from the little clearing where the surgeons worked. Men shrieked and cried out in pain, others moaned. She heard men shouting for comrades, searching among the injured for friends and brothers. Surgeons shouted at aides and called for the next man to participate in the macabre dance that was a field hospital during battle. And always there was the sound of cannon. The constant roar of the big guns filled the air and made it difficult to draw breath. The birds had long since fled the canopy and other than the occasional rattle of branches in the wind, the forest was devoid of any natural noises. Margaret sighed as she fell to her knees beside the creek. She dipped the bucket into the stream and staggered back to the clearing, which was carpeted in injured men. She saw one staggering away on a makeshift crutch while another man was dragged towards the surgeons, the remains of his arm mangled beyond recognition. She glanced out across the mass of humanity and felt utterly lost. All of them wanted and needed water and she couldn't even remember where she'd left off before. A sound, half sob, half laugh, escaped her as she watched more men stumble into the clearing.

"Miss St. Claire!" She turned quickly to see a surgeon holding a thrashing man down to the table as his assistant retched into the grass nearby. Margaret dropped the bucket with a splash and raced to help restrain the man. She had to climb upon the table to get the leverage required to hold him flat. Staring down into his wild brown eyes she thought of the rabbits she and her mother used raise. She spoke calmly to him, as she had spoken calmly to the rabbits just before they'd had to kill them. The man screamed and thrashed, but the surgeon finally took the leg and the unconscious soldier was carried off to lie among his other broken brethren. Margaret teetered off the table and staggered away from the carnage back to her overturned bucket. Exhausted though she was, she made her way back to the small stream, refilled her bucket, and made it back to the clearing to begin ministering to the injured again.

* * *

For hours she walked amongst the injured, packing wounds with lint and bandaging what was manageable. Others she tried to ease into some semblance of comfort before death came for them. She walked what seemed like miles going to each group of soldiers, administering water and then hiking back to the stream to start the process over again.

Pack.

Wrap.

Quench.

Comfort.

More water.

Just when she thought she'd reached everyone she'd realize a new group of injured had arrived, or that she ought to go back to the first group of men and see how their dressings were faring or if they needed more water.

Water. That was the crux of the problem. If she didn't have to walk so far for water perhaps she wouldn't be so tired. Again, she wiped at the sweat and dirt that clung to her face and realized it was doing more harm than good. _Where had all the blood come from?_ Surely she had more blood on her hands than was contained in all the bodies in all the world. Her kerchief was gone, when it had fallen, she had no notion and as she bent to the stream bed to get more water her hair fell over her shoulder, the ends of it dropping over her shoulder and into the creek. The pins had gone the way of the kerchief she supposed. Her knees were cold and ached, as did her back, hands, and neck. Her eyes burned with the weight of weariness and with tears she was unable to shed. She realized she was too tired to even have the energy to make tears, much less sob them out. And for what purpose would she sob them? There was no one to hear her wails above the men crying out in pain and for mothers and wives they would never see again.

Returning to the clearing, it looked as if the number of injured men had doubled since she'd left. Many came in clutching at ghastly wounds. Others stood and looked about in abject horror while others tried to find comrades. Wearily Margaret looked for green facings and black trousers, but all blended into a blur of red; red for blood, for pain, and for anger.

* * *

The sun was easing behind the trees and bright golden light filtered into the far reaches of the clearing, but in the lee of the trees it was cool, almost icy and the men there who were able hoisted themselves up and began to gather fuel for fires, or to make their way into the woods towards where their regiments might make camp. Margaret's hands were cracked and red from cold, dipping into the water bucket and creek, which was beginning to form a thin sheet of ice about its edge. Coming back to the clearing, she let her eyes adjust to the half light and started her sojourn as water carrier for what must have been the thousandth time that day. Straightening, her spine cracked, and she held a hand to the small of her back to ease the tension of her weary muscles. It was then that she saw the man at the edge of the clearing, staring absently at the long lines of his brethren.

Broad of shoulder.

Trim of waist.

Black pants.

Green Facings.

Margaret's breath caught and she dropped the bucket, mindless of the men lying at her feet. She moved towards the dragoon in the trees but she could not get her feet to move quickly enough. It seemed that the ground stretched before her and that always there were more wounded men between her and the man in the trees…the man who could tell her what became of the men of His Majesties Royal Dragoons.

She gripped her skirts with numb fingers and moved quicker, trying to cover ground that seemed to go on forever. She knocked into one man who was moving slowly through the press of bodies but barely stopped to apologize, so focused was she on the dragoon in the trees. She had to duck around knots of men moving in the opposite direction, constantly moving for the tree line as the dragoon's eyes searched blankly along the rows.

Sandy Hair.

Square Jaw.

_James._

But his name caught in her throat. It must be James, how could it not? Her heart soared at the thought that he had survived. She tripped over one of the bodies on the ground. There was no yelp of pain, or indignation. Either the man was lost to the blissful black of pain induced unconsciousness or he was dead. Regardless, the graceless maneuver brought the Dragoon's eyes to her and she raced all that much faster towards him.

"James!" His name squeezed out on a breath. So loud was her heart pounding she was unsure whether it was shouted or a mere whisper. He took a slow step towards her and suddenly the distance between them was closed and she flew against his strong body, wrapping her arms about his neck, thankful that he was alive. His arm was slow to close about her, but when it did, she felt the warmth of his hand against her back. She held tight to him, fingering the fine red wool of his coat and pressed her face into the crook of his neck. He smelled of horse and leather, but also of battle—the overpowering stench of gunpowder, dirt and blood.

_Blood._

She'd grown too used to the coppery tang of it hanging in the air, the stink of unwashed bodies and of illness and death. She pulled back and glanced first at his broad chest and down the rest of him.

"Oh God, I did not think. Are you hurt? Are you injured?" She moved his coat so she could see better, but though his shirt was dirty, and there was indeed blood upon his coat and shirt, it was not his. She glanced into his eyes, tired and empty and saw the cut at his hairline. "Your head…"

"It's nothing…." He whispered, his own voice hoarse form having shouted it away on the field of battle. He clasped her hand in his larger one, preventing her from touching the wound and then slowly touched her cheek. "Don't cry…I'm alright."

"I'm not crying…." Margaret swiped at her own cheek and realized she was indeed crying. "Or I am….I was so worried."

James cupped her face and kissed her slowly. Margaret grasped his wrist holding fast to him in the shade of the trees, relishing the single happy moment she'd had all day. A sob-happy, exhausted, or both-escaped and James pulled away enough to pull her against his chest, enveloping her in his strong, warm arms and letting her calm herself. She pulled back to look up into his face and saw him staring out over the field of wounded men.

"James?" It took him a moment to pull his eyes from the carnage behind her and glance to her face again. "James, where are the others?"

"Scattered." He whispered, his eyes once again dancing across the crowded meadow. "I didn't know where to go." Margaret attempted to pull him into the clearing, towards the light so she could examine his head wound but he pulled away from her. "No. I can't stay." Suddenly the man before her changed. Gone was the lost soldier and before her stood the duty bound Captain. He swallowed hard and shook his head, as if to free it of cobwebs. "I must return to the field, I shouldn't have come here." He turned and made to mount his horse but Margaret stopped him, grasping the sleeve of his coat with strength she didn't think she had.

"What's going on? Where are you going? Surely the battle is over." Margaret hadn't noticed when the cannon had stopped, so consumed was she with tending the wounded and staying on her feet. James stared at her for a moment then again at the wounded men beyond. "It is over…the cannon have stopped." She tugged harder at his sleeve, pulling him towards the field hospital again. "Tell me what happened. What _is _happening…"

"Colonel Tavington…"

"Can wait!" Margaret snapped, her patience gone. "Surely the man can wait a few…"

"Is dead." Margaret stopped mid-sentence and stared at James. His eyes moved over her face and he shook his head. "He's dead, Margaret."


	30. Desolation

Margaret didn't know what to say, how to think, what to do. She blinked rapidly trying to make sense of what Captain Wilkins was telling her. Was it possible…?

"Those rebels, they hate him Margaret. I have to retrieve his body before…before…" James' voice faded away as he turned from her, attempting to leave.

"I'll go with you." Margaret grasped James' hand and tugged at his wrist to bring his attention to her. "You mustn't go alone. I'll go with you. _We'll_ get the Colonel-together." James nodded absently and allowed her to lead the way through the forest. Slowly, unconsciously, he curled his fingers between hers, grasping her hand and holding fast to it as if to tether him in place. They followed the smell of smoke and blood and the shouts of the wounded back to where the battle had raged. Margaret's feet ached, as she was sure James' did, but the horse James had with him did not look like it would bear much weight. They had to save it for…

"Tell me what happened. Tell me all of it." Margaret said quietly.

"I don't really remember." He started. Margaret moved closer to him until they were walking shoulder to shoulder, the heat of his arm seeping into her own, his hand warming hers. "We were supposed to wait for orders from General Lord Cornwallis but the Colonel didn't wait." He shook his head. "He saw something, someone out there…"

"Colonel Martin." James glanced at her briefly and nodded.

"He led us straight into the first line and the colonists fled, as they always do. He rode straight into them." He stopped speaking but Margaret remained quiet. She glanced up at him, noticing the contemplative look settle across his features. He took a deep breath and then continued his narrative. "Infantry came in behind us, racing to catch up to us…" He shook his head then. "There were more of the rebels behind the rise, only they were regulars. We rode straight into a trap." Slowly, absently, James adjusted his grip on her hand and took to stroking the length of her thumb with his own. "I was thrown…I don't know how. One minute I was riding down a colonial, the next…" He shook his head again. "It's fuzzy after that. I remember waking to the battle raging all around me, but I couldn't get up. I kept trying, but I was held down. I had to crawl from beneath a body—" His voice broke and he stopped a moment, pulling his hand from Margaret's, ignoring the stricken look upon her face. "I crawled-my helmet…" he waved a hand dismissively at the saddle where Margaret saw the bear pelt crest matted down and flailing sadly from the broken helm. When she looked back, James was pinching the bridge of his nose, his shoulders shaking slightly.

Margaret grasped his free hand and pulled him close, tugging his head to her shoulder as he struggled to compose himself. He pulled away from her but held tight to her hand.

"I stumbled about, that's when I found Colonel Tavington." They had long since emerged onto the open field that come Spring would bloom healthy and green if there was a farmer to see to it's planting. For now though, its crop was made of men. Red and blue and white and brown, they lay about the field like so many wild flowers. Survivors of the battle stumbled amongst the dead, some checking for life and lost comrades, others-the others Margaret tried to ignore as she saw men and women hacking at fingers and digging through haversacks for valuables.

"How will we find him?" Margaret asked quietly as they stopped and took in the ghastly view. Her voice felt ill used, shocked into silence by all she had witnessed this terrible day.

"He was by the ruins." James nodded in the direction of the burned out house that sat on the opposite side of the battle field from where they had stopped. "He was…I never should have brought you here." James suddenly turned to face her, dropping her hand as if it had burned him. "You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have to see this."

"But I am here." Margaret grasped the lapels of his coat and forced him to look at her. "I am here to help you." Margaret smiled grimly at him. "I have seen far worse this day at the hospital…I have seen so much already." She turned away, her fingers slipping slowly from his grasp as she moved to lead him onward. "Let us go get Colonel Tavington before…" A wounded man stumbled past them blindly, sinking into a tree beside them, gasping for breath as his arm dangled by a few threads of sinew. Blood seeped from between his fingers and he sobbed brokenly, his eyes darting about wildly. Without thinking, Margaret tried to approach him to offer what little help she could. She had bandages in her skirt pocket after all. As Margaret stepped forward the man's wild eyes focused on her, but she knew instinctively it was not her she saw, but some monster from his nightmares. The man lunged, and Margaret threw up her arms to protect herself against the wild man coming at her.

James stepped in, grasping the man by the chest and flinging the wounded soldier back the way he and Margaret had just come. "Get you to the field hospital. The surgeons can help you." The man staggered away into the darkness, weaving between the trees in a drunken fashion. Margaret hoped he made it to a field hospital before he bled out or died of the cold. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine. He didn't hurt me." Margaret was dismayed to hear her voice shake. "I shouldn't have approached him, I should have known better."

"You were only trying to help." It was Margaret's turn to be dismayed and tired. She rubbed her temples. She felt James caress her arms, massaging warmth into them. She glanced up, smiling gratefully at him.

"Let's hurry." James grasped her hand again and tugged her out into the late afternoon sun. "I should warn you, it is not pretty…"

"I can see that." Margaret whispered softly as they stepped over the bodies of the dead. James took up a spot to her left, his hand at the small of her back guiding her gently between him and the horse. She rested a hand against the shoulder of the horse to steady herself as it too picked its way across the battlefield. So weary was it that it did not even raise its head or roll its eyes at the stench of blood and death around it.

"You don't understand Margaret…the Colonel's final moments must have been brutal."

"As was his life."

"I never should have brought you here. I should have fought him that night at your stepfather's house." James took her hand again and turned his eyes to her. "Forgive me? Please forgive me Margaret. I know you said you couldn't before, after what happened at Pembroke, after what I did…"

Margaret stopped and placed her hand upon his cheek, forcing him to look her full in the face, to see her eyes and the truth there.

"Only because you never gave me a chance….Let me say it now, and commit it to memory for all time. I forgive you, Captain James Wilkins. From the bottom of my heart, from my very soul, from everything I am or ever will be, I do forgive you your trespasses against me, imagined though they might be. What you did, you did under orders, under your sworn oath to God and to the King." His gaze wavered, his lip trembled and he bowed into her hand, an obvious weight lifted at the absolution Margaret offered. They stood silently for a moment before the horse nudged Margaret's shoulder, impatient to finish the fool hardy quest they had found themselves on. Margaret stopped a few times to help the wounded but for the most part she stayed with James, close by his side as they made the long trek from woodland to burned farm house across the great meadow. Every so often their hands would touch and their fingers would entwine; the gentle caresses and soft pressure of pressed palms more suited to a walk in a park or to stolen moments in a parlor than to their slow march across a spent battlefield. Slowly the carnage began to penetrate Margaret's mind and she saw the devastation that had been wrought against the English troops. It seemed every where she glanced she saw green facings and the eyes of a man whom she had supped with at some point in the course of the past year. Here and there black fur danced in the cold breeze upon a helmet that had been discarded in the heat of battle. She pulled away from James and went to kneel beside one of the dead. She gently brushed her fingers across the face of the dead dragoon, closing his eyes.

"I never knew Hooker's name." She said softly, as James came up behind her. "His Christian name." She glanced around, feeling as if she had been cast loose upon open water, forced to founder. Her chest felt tight and it was difficult to draw breath. "How many others died?"

"His name was John." James glanced about the field trying to see it as Margaret did. "The final roll call has yet to be taken…we won't know the count until later."

"He gave me letters for his wife." She shook her head briefly, her long tresses shining copper in the failing light. "Edwards gave me letters for his mother. Is he…?"

"I don't know." Margaret heaved a shaky sigh as she glanced at the ocean of destruction around her.

And then she saw him; propped against one of the long Brown Bess muskets like a discarded child's marionette. His eyes remained open, his arms hung limp to his sides. Margaret held a hand to her mouth to stifle the gasp that escaped. Several colonial militia men milled about, staring at the ignoble death pose of the infamous Butcher. Margaret struggled to her feet; James clasped her elbow to help her rise. They walked slowly towards Tavington, Margaret stumbled once, balking slightly at the sight she beheld. James' arm went around her waist supporting her even as they moved closer to the Colonel.

"Halt!" One of the Colonial men had turned and seen Margaret and James' approach. He lowered his own Brown Bess towards them, glaring angrily at James' red coat. "You're on the wrong side, Lobster Back." The man snarled.

"I came to retrieve the Colonel's body. He is due that much respect."

"He's due no respect. He gave none in life, he'll receive none in death!" One of the men shouted, coming to block their approach to the body.

"It is his right as an officer and a gentleman..."

"Gentleman my ass." One of the Colonials drawled, spitting a heaping wad of tobacco into the dirt at the dead colonel's feet. "Is it gentlemen that burn churches? Kill innocent women and children? If it is, I'll count myself lucky to never be a gentleman."

Margaret felt James stiffen beside her. The list of crimes attributed to the Colonel were his as well.

"He may not 'ave been a gentleman, but 'e was an officer." James and Margaret turned to stare at the immaculately dressed, heavily accented man approaching them. "I came to see if it were true. Apparently Benjamin did not exaggerate in this."

"Sir." James stood as straight as he could, but tottered slightly. "I came to retrieve my commander's body from the field of battle."

"Oui, of course you did." Villeneuve's eyes darted to Margaret. "And you?"

"I came to retrieve Colonel Tavington's body as well." Margaret locked eyes with the French major, glaring at him as he spoke again.

"Why? Why would you support this scélérat?"

"Scélérat? You call _him _the villain?" Though Margaret was exhausted and had felt utterly drained on their long trek across the field, she now felt suddenly energized. Slowly she stepped away from James, approaching the Frenchman. She knew the voice, had heard it in the darkness and in her dreams. This was the same Frenchman who had sat beside a fire in the middle of the Black Swamp and helped condemn her to a terrible fate. "_He was my captor, and my keeper." _Margaret stated in French._ "With his death comes my freedom and the safety of my family. He never treated me vilely and he remained true to his word to not harm my family. I will give him this final respect."_ Major Villeneuve seemed taken aback by her flawless French and stared at her open mouthed for a moment before ordering the others to step back.

"They will take the Butcher's body back to their lines. They are not to be harmed or hindered in this endeavor. In this you have my word." He said with a slight bow.

"What good is your word?" Margaret shot back angrily, still moving closer. "You were there…in the swamp. You were there and knew of what they planned to do to me. You let them torture me…"

"Vous?" The man whispered, as he watched the angry woman approach him. Suddenly he recognized her, the woman who had been the Butcher's spy. The woman he had argued to have punished in spite of the French blood running in her veins. He cleared his throat and shook his head, dislodging any dark thoughts that tried to settle there. "A casualty of war. A most unfortunate occurrence, mademoiselle." Margaret was quite close to the major now. Without thinking she brought her hand up and let it come crashing down across the man's cheek. She ignored the sting burning up her palm as she glared angrily at the man.

"Damner vous et votre 'mot.'" She hissed at him, taking pleasure in watching his cheek turn red in the cold. He rubbed at his cheek as he glared at her again. "Your words are empty….a mere shell and worth half as much."

"Margaret…" James hissed, but his words went unheeded as Margaret and Villeneuve stared at one another.

"Croyez ce que vous voulez, but you have my word of protection now. _From one Frenchman to another, no?"_ Margaret seethed quietly as she glared up at the Frenchman. Eventually she nodded curtly and stepped away from the major.

"Go. You will not be molested. Take your Colonel back to your own lines." The major turned and waved dismissively. "The body is starting to smell and no one wishes for him to be buried with our own men. We wouldn't wish to do them that disrespect." Margaret turned towards James and slowly made her way towards the Colonel's final resting place. The Colonial soldiers stepped away, content now to gape not at the ignoble pose of Colonel Tavington in death, but at the woman and captain struggling with his corpse. Margaret swallowed deeply as she grasped the bayonet that was thrust through Tavington's throat while James held fast to his body. The sharp blade made a terrible sucking noise as it slowly eased from the Colonel's neck. Blood slid thickly from the open wound and dribbled down the barrel of the Brown Bess shoved through his gut and the only thing holding him upright. James lifted the body from the point of the bayonet while Margaret held the gun firm. Once freed, she threw the gun violently to the ground, hoping to break the lock or dent the barrel to keep it from being used ever again. James dragged his commander to the waiting horse and tried to heave it onto the saddle, but he was not strong enough. He tried again, but Margaret had to come over and help maneuver the body over the saddle and help see that the Colonel was well secured before they could depart. James turned his back on the colonials, straightening his spine and staring at the horizon that had been the English line of battle. Margaret heard the rebels taunt them as they made their slow passage back across the field they had only just crossed.

"Don't look back Margaret." James whispered. He tugged on the reins of the horse, urging it onward. "Don't give them the pleasure."

"Never." Margaret focused on a distant tree, concentrating on remaining awake and ignoring the desolation of war around her.


	31. Darkness

A/N: Again, I'm sorry about the long spaces between updates. I generally try to update sooner. Unfortunately I just moved (again) and had to deal with shifting work schedules. I appreciate everyone's patience and hope that you are all enjoying this story. Thanks also to those of you who have reviewed, it helps me know I'm working in the right direction.

Enjoy.

* * *

James walked silently across the field, leading the horse that bore the dead body of Colonel Tavington. Margaret walked just behind him. Every so often, he turned to check on her. She seemed pale, her eyes focused somewhere on the ground ahead of them. She walked as one half asleep, sometimes stumbling on the discarded arms of the dead or tufts of grass. She was disheveled, her hair hanging limp and dirty across her shoulders, shoulders that seemed burdened with an invisible weight. She had worked hard this day, and seen much. He felt guilty that she should have been pulled into this.

"What will you do now?" Margaret's head snapped up and she searched his face a moment before surveying the trees ahead of them, searching for shadows and specters that weren't there. Stepping into the shadow of the trees, Margaret shivered and followed behind James, thinking about his question.

"I don't know." She said finally. The silence of the wood pressed in around them, the only sound that of their steps in the dry leaves that carpeted the ground. The horse leapt over a downed branch and James turned to help Margaret step over it. When she placed her hand in his he felt how icy cold her fingers were and saw that dried blood clung to the back of her hands and around her nails. She too noticed the blood and tried to snatch her hand away from him, but he closed his own fingers about hers. Without a word, he helped her over the branch and then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. In silence and growing darkness they continued on until they reached an open field in which the British Army had begun to reassemble. From an infantryman, they discovered where Cornwallis and the high command had set themselves up. Margaret held fast to James, barely seeing the walking wounded and battle grime covered soldiers walking by. If she had, she may have noticed that they were in their own worlds, reliving the battle that Margaret had only heard, only witnessed the aftermath. Few of the men even noticed the dead body of the Butcher slung over the back of the horse.

"Captain Wilkins." James stopped and turned to face the aide that had called to him. Margaret stepped back and watched as the two men conversed quietly. Her feet ached, and her head pounded as if the artillery barrage from earlier were still going on. She wanted to sit down. She wanted to lie down and never get back up again. She knew that if she did either of those things, she just may never get up again. She was tired straight down to her bones.

"Margaret?" Margaret nearly leapt out of her skin when she felt James shake her. She'd been staring off into space, not even able to remember what she had been staring at or how long she'd been staring at it. "Margaret?"

"Fine….I'm fine." Margaret shook her head to clear the cobwebs and looked back at James. "I'm just tired is all."

"Go back to the camp." Margaret stared at him blankly, trying to figure out where the camp might be and how she was to get there. "It's not far; the corporal will take you there. I'll meet up with you shortly."

Margaret latched onto that last statement and James watched a sudden clarity come to her.

"Promise?" She grasped his sleeve and stared intently into his eyes. "You promise me?"

"I promise." He patted her arm and watched as she slowly turned and followed the corporal back towards the dragoon camp.

* * *

Margaret went to her tent and went about the chores of camp in a fog. She'd been so distracted on the road way that she hadn't heard the thundering hoof beats of a courier's mount coming up the road. The corporal had had to pull her from the middle of the road lest she be run down. Margaret didn't know where he'd gone after they'd arrived at the camp. She looked around but saw no one near her. Why was she standing by the woods and how had she gotten there? She glanced down and realized she was gathering fire wood.

_Wood. I need wood for a fire. I need a fire so I can cook. What am I going to cook?_ Margaret stumbled back towards her tent and tossed the wood down, struggling to bring a small cook fire to life. She burned her fingers on the flint twice before managing to get a spark to catch on the dry tinder.  
"Miss St. Claire?" Margaret glanced up at the Corporal as he stepped into the faint ring of light from her feeble fire. "I brought the rations."

_Now I know what I'm going to cook…_

Margaret tried to muster a smile as she took the bag of meal and tiny bit of salt pork from the corporal. When she looked up again he'd disappeared into the darkness beyond her tent. She stared numbly at the items in her lap for some time, not fully comprehending how she thought she might be able to cook anything. She had no pots, no knife, no canteen. Eventually she sat back and stared into the embers, too tired to cook the food that the corporal had brought for her, too tired to do anything but sit and stare straight ahead and wait on James.

* * *

James stood in the shadows for a moment and watched Margaret sleep. She looked uncomfortable, as if her bones had melted and she'd slumped down into a heap. He walked to the small pile of firewood and added a thick branch to the tiny fire before he knelt beside Margaret. He moved aside a sack of rations and touched her shoulder. She was slow to rouse, blinking dully and rubbing her face. James sighed seeing the blood still on her hands, the dirt clinging to her cheeks.

"You'll freeze sleeping here." James whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Margaret struggled to sit up, her muscles and joints screaming in agony.

"I couldn't…" Margaret cleared her throat, and pushed more loose hair from her face. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You _need _to sleep." James said quietly. "You're exhausted; it's been a trying day. But first let's get you cleaned up."

Margaret didn't say anything; just stared at her grubby fingers and hands. She rubbed her palms on her skirt a few times while James went off to find a canteen and a rag. When he returned, he knelt before her and slowly began to pour the water over her fingers, gently scrubbing away the dried blood.

"It's cold." She said dully. He glanced up at her, dampening the cloth further and gently swiping at the smear of blood on her cheek. When he noticed how intently she was watching him, he tapped her nose with his knuckle. One side of her mouth turned up, but that was all she could muster.

"What about you?" She suddenly asked. He had just finished cleaning the last of the dirt from her face. "What about the cut on your head?" Margaret could see the dark purple bruise forming around the swelling at his temple, but the light wasn't good enough for her to see blood.

"One of the medics at Headquarters took care of it." Margaret yawned. "Now let me finish taking care of you. You should sleep." He watched Margaret nod dully and then helped her to her feet. She pulled away and walked slowly into a tent nearby. James' stomach growled loudly and he knelt to the rations still at his feet. He rubbed his own face, not comprehending the amount of food left. James wandered to a nearby fire where other dragoons were still awake, staring into the darkness.

"Corporal…" James watched as several of the men made to rise and he waved them back to their seats. The corporal that had escorted Margaret sat in the ring of light, a tin mug in his hand. James saw the man move his leg to shield the bottle of rum sitting at his feet. "I don't care that you're drinking. After a day like today, I could use some myself." One of the men leaned down and picked up a tin mug and passed it to James, who waited for the bottle to make its way around to him. He poured himself a dram and waited until everyone had topped their mugs off.

"To the Colonel." One of the men whispered. The men all raised their mugs and drank of the sweet liquor, returning to silence. James locked eyes on the corporal across the fire from him.

"Thank you for bringing Miss St. Clair double rations. Saves me the trouble of hunting for them on my own." James saw a greasy skillet beside the fire and nodded towards the fire. "May I?"

"Certainly." One of the other men gestured from the skillet to the fire and sat back. James set the skillet in the fire and set to frying the salt pork.

"Sir, I'm afraid I don't understand." The corporal shook his head as he refilled his mug. "I didn't bring her double rations." James glanced up from where he was making johnnycakes. He looked at the hunk of salt pork and the amount of corn meal in front of him. James shook his head, turning the frying meat over and setting the cornmeal cakes into the fat. Margaret must have fallen asleep before she had a chance to cook and he'd just watched her stumble to bed, too exhausted and hungry to function. James motioned for the men to pass a plate over to him before he fished out the fried cornbread and meat. He'd get more rations and make something for Margaret later. Right now, there was at least one sort of emptiness he could fill and he couldn't do anything for Margaret if he was ready to pass out from hunger. James practically licked the last of the crumbs and grease from the plate before splashing some water across the tin, swishing it about and tossing the dirty water into the grass beyond the ring of flame. James stood, his muscles protesting, begging for sleep. He went to the supply wagon and drew more rations before strolling back towards Margaret's tent. The conversation he'd had with command swirled in his head. He rubbed at his temple and hissed loudly, the knot and cut at his scalp burning painfully. James paused for a moment and stared up at the clear night sky. Stars by the thousands winked down at him without the veil of clouds to block out the light of a single one. The thick ribbon of the milky way swooped across the sky and James followed it down to the horizon where it disappeared somewhere near where the battlefield was. He squeezed his eyes shut as his mind thought of all the souls using the starry path as a road to heaven.

_My God I need sleep…_

He'd come into the circle of light at Margaret's tent, the branch he'd put in earlier having broken apart and the embers danced brightly in the darkness. He was just beginning to unbutton his coat when the sound of rustling and moaning reached him. He quickly stepped towards Margaret's tent, the sounds of distress growing louder. As he pulled back the flap, light from the fire illuminated the interior of the tent, casting Margaret's cot into view. Half of the blankets had been kicked from the bed as she tossed restlessly, fighting something in her dreams.

"No! No!" Margaret thrashed violently as she continued to mumble the single word over and over in her sleep. James stepped into the tent and knelt at her bedside before he touched her shoulder gently, trying to bring her out of the nightmare she seemed trapped in. She sat bolt upright and screamed, her eyes casting about wildly before she was able to focus on James. Her breaths came quickly and tears streamed down her cheeks like a river. James nearly fell over as Margaret launched herself at him, hugging him close as she sobbed. She kept saying 'No!' over and over again, fisting his waistcoat in her hands, grasping at him as if he were the only piece of wreckage in a vast ocean. The angle was awkward and pulled at already tired and sore back muscles. He was quick to sweep her up to sit across his lap. It made it easier for him to rock her as she bawled.

"Shh….it's alright." James whispered as he smoothed his hand up and down her back. She hiccupped a few times and pulled away from him slightly, trying to control her breathing. "Would you like some water?" Margaret nodded slowly, shivering in the cool air within the tent. James slid her legs from his lap and disentangled himself from the blankets before he slipped from the tent to retrieve his canteen. He took a moment to scrounge up a candle and picked up a bayonet before returning to Margaret's tent. He lit the candle from the fire and slid it into the socket of the bayonet which he stabbed into the ground in the middle of Margaret's tent. When he turned, Margaret was shivering violently where she sat on her cot. He knelt before her, grasping her hands in his and wrapping them around the canteen. Her hands shook as she tried to raise the canteen to her lips, twice it nearly slipped from her hands, but James steadied it and made sure she drank slowly.

"It was awful." She whispered, staring at her knees. "So much blood…so much death."

"It's over now." James rose to his feet and sat beside her, pulling one of the blankets up over her shoulders.

"No…no it isn't." Margaret shuddered as she pulled the blanket tighter. "It won't ever be over, not ever."

"One way or the other it has to end."

"One war ends, another begins. I know my history." James reached over and grasped her hands where they shook in her lap. "My dream was so vivid…._so vivid."_

"Care to tell me about it?" Margaret shook her head at first before another sob escaped. "Margaret…"

"It was the battlefield." Margaret shook her head. "I saw them all just lying there and there was blood flowing across the grass and between them all." She turned watery eyes on James. "And then they started to rise up…"She choked on the words and shook her head as the visions threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn't mention the last bit—the fact that the rivers of blood had begun to separate as they slid through the tall grass, coalescing into long snakes that had wrapped up around her legs and threatened to pull her down…into the arms of the dead men who kept begging for her help.

"I'm sorry…I knew I shouldn't have brought you there."

"It wasn't just the field of battle…it was the hospital as well." Margaret hiccupped. "It was everything…this whole cursed day. I thought I could handle it, I thought…I thought…." Margaret began to sob again. All the emotions of the day came crashing down over her, burying her like a rogue wave. She struggled to draw breath through her tears, tears that continued to fall as she grew more and more upset at her inability to stop. Through it all, James sat beside her, gently running his fingertips up and down her spine. Margaret hiccupped a few more times, breathing deeply and trying to calm herself.

"You're tired…and I'm sure you must be hungry." Margaret shook her head vehemently.

"I'm not hungry…"Margaret whispered. "I _am _tired. Too tired to chew…too tired to think…"

James rose up from narrow cot, prepared to blow out the candle and leave the tent, but Margaret latched onto his sleeve and stopped him. She was staring into the flame of the stump of candle, glowing soft and yellow near the tent flap.

"Margaret?" James crouched before her again, breaking her concentration on the flame. Her eyes danced back and forth a moment and then fastened onto him. "Margaret, what is it?"

"Don't go…."

"What?" Margaret worried her lip as she held fast to his coat sleeve.

"I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be left behind…I don't…." Tears welled in her eyes again and she dashed them away as quickly as she could. "My father died, my mother left me in Charlestown for her new husband, my best friend left me and my husband's family left me to…to _rot_ as a widow….and then John and his children…they left the farm and I don't' know where they are. I'm so _tired _of being left behind, and abandoned…" Margaret began to cry again, shaking her head. "I'm sorry…I'm so sorry, I can't….I can't seem…."

James squeezed her hand and shifted his weight to blow out the candle. He shucked out of his coat and rolled it at the head of the bed before he sat beside Margaret and wrapped an arm around her.

"I will not leave you…" James whispered.

"You can't promise me that….what about the next battle?"

"We've barely come through this last one." James sighed, tucking her head beneath her chin. He felt her sob again. "Let's just get through the night…alright?" He felt Margaret nod her head. She still shuddered and shivered, even though she was enveloped in the blankets.

"I'm afraid to close my eyes…." She whispered.

"It was a dream….nothing will harm you." James rose as he eased her down to onto the cot. He felt around in the darkness for the blankets that had slipped from the cot and spread them over Margaret. When everything had been straightened he returned to the head of the cot and knelt where he could see the white circle of Margaret's face in the darkness. "Do you still want me to stay?"

"Please?" Her voice was heavy with sleep, but she was struggling to stay awake. James pulled his boots from his feet, a task made more difficult by his own weariness. "I feel foolish…I've never been so terrified of shadows before."

"There's nothing to feel foolish about." James glanced up when there was a shout outside the tent, a man screamed in absolute terror in the night and he and Margaret heard others rush towards the commotion. "You aren't the only one having night terrors…"

James stretched out upon the cot, wondering if he too would be plagued with nightmares. He had barely stretched out beneath the blankets when Margaret curled into him. He grasped her hand briefly where she'd laid it across his chest, shocked to still find it so icy cold. He gathered her closer to him, pulling her into his warmth. Idly, he twisted a lock of her hair around his finger as her breathing evened out and she slowly slipped back to sleep.


	32. By Dawn's Early Light

"_Warm_" Margaret thought. "_This feeling is called warm." _She woke feeling as if it had been days-years-since she had last felt warm. Something had roused her and she had awoken feeling warm….a rumbling snore sounded beneath her ear and she flinched, confused by the warm purr. A plethora of scents assaulted her…gunpowder, linen, dirt, sweat _and James._

"Relax." His voice was heavy with sleep, hoarse and thick with it. It wrapped around Margaret-_like molasses-s_he thought, warm and sweet and dark. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't…not really." Margaret's own voice was thin and airy to her own ears. She whispered into the darkness. She was afraid to speak overly loud lest she break the bubble of dark silence that surrounded them, protected them; wrapped them up tight and safe, like a cocoon. In the darkness, all of Margaret's senses were tuned to the man who lay beside her; heard him inhale deeply, felt his chest expand beneath her head—the rasp of the fabric of his shirt against her cheek—felt him flex his hand and every one of his fingers spread wide across the plane of the middle of her back, gently massaging muscles she didn't even realize were tight and effortlessly pulling her closer to his warm body.

"_Safe."_ Margaret thought. "_Is this what safe is? It's been so long since I've felt safe." _She spread her fingers wide across James' chest, feeling the strength and warmth of him beneath her palm, reassuring her that he was real, and warm and _alive. _

"You're thinking…." James' voice, still threaded with sleep was slightly stronger. "So loud I can hear it."

"Shh…." Margaret admonished, still fearful of breaking the spell of silence that enveloped them. "I'm not."

"Liar." James' fingertips played over her back, massaging away the tension there and easing her deeper into the oblivion of sleep. "What are you thinking about?"

"Hmm?" Margaret found it difficult to form words, so relaxed was she. "I was thinking about being safe." She mumbled thickly. She felt James shift beneath her, and then he kissed the top of her head before she fell back into the dark abyss of sleep.

* * *

_Margaret moved between the great gray trunks of the cypress trees, staring up at the still beards of Spanish moss hanging heavy from large branches. She reached out to brush her fingers across the smooth bark, but felt nothing. She kept walking towards the setting sun filtering through the trees like watery yellow fingers. She thought she heard her name called as if from a great distance, but the sound of the wind playing through the trees confused her. Soon she entered a clearing, an all too familiar clearing. Two figures stood in the middle of it but she only had eyes for James. James Wilkins, standing tall and proud in his dragoon uniform, the bear pelt crest reflecting the setting sun that came to twine its sunny yellow fingers through the fur. He smiled at her and reached a hand out towards her, which she reached for gladly, smiling in return._

"_Margaret." The voice sounded from the opposite side of the clearing where the other figure stood in shadow. Margaret stared at the figure as she placed her hand into James'. "Margaret…."_

_An errant beam of light stroked over the man in shadows bathing him briefly in light before the fog and shade came back to wrap around him. Margaret moved closer to James as she saw William Tavington staring back at her from the fog. He was not as he had been in life, but as she had last seen him in death. There was a ghastly hole in his throat and another spreading blood from his stomach. "Margaret" her name rattled from the hole in his throat as he stared coldly at her, his icy eyes lifeless and cold, cold enough she shivered. _

"_No. Never you….it was always him." She said as the dead man stepped towards her. "It was always James." She saw the dead man stop and the shadows grew thicker obscuring him. She felt James' arms come around her, pulling her closer to him. The Colonel stepped away and turned, the last sound she heard before he disappeared in the fog, the soft clink of his saber rattling in its scabbard as he walked into the forest beyond the clearing._

* * *

James had awoken with the rising sun, pleasantly warm with Margaret curled beside him. He vaguely remembered waking in the night, and of Margaret mumbling something about feeling safe. He desperately wanted that for her, she deserved that.

But she would not be safe here. Not with the army, not with war raging so close to them. And more than anything he feared that the only thing that had kept her well and truly safe while she stayed with the army had died yesterday in a most gruesome fashion. James had slipped from the bed, tucking Margaret in tight against the chill air of morning and risen to dress. As quietly as he could he pulled on his boots and shrugged into his coat. Last of all came the saber, which rattled in its scabbard as he made to duck from the tent.

"James?" He turned back to see Margaret trying to blink sleep from her eyes.

"Hush…go back to sleep."

"You're leaving." She tried to rise up, but James quickly knelt beside her cot and gently pushed her back down, tugging the blanket up.

"I'm just going to go draw some rations to make breakfast." He whispered, stroking hair back from her face, gently twirling the baby-fine hair at her temple. "You must be starving."

"I can help…" He smiled down at her, even as her eyes closed.

"Just rest for once. I'll take care of it." He bent to kiss her brow and then left the tent to secure rations to make breakfast.

As James stalked towards the supply train he thought about Margaret. She'd been on his mind increasingly of late. He couldn't help it. To him, she seemed to invade his every waking moment-and many of his sleeping ones as well. He had often thought of her….often dreamt of her; her smile, her laugh, her _constance _even in the face of utter chaos. Her constance had wavered though. He wondered for a moment if her constancy had broken in the face of the Colonel's death. He vaguely remembered the way she had looked at him the night of the ball at Middleton. And yet, James felt guilty for being jealous of a dead man. Margaret had never once shown much affection for Tavington…mostly she had been coolly polite, but he couldn't be sure. He would never be sure. James quietly drew the ration of bacon, two potatoes, an egg and cornmeal. Where the extra rations had come from, he didn't know, and he was too tired to ask. He supposed someone had had the energy to go out foraging in the night and raided someone's root cellar. He wandered back to the camp and started to cook breakfast in the faint light of dawn.

* * *

Margaret awoke to the smell of bacon frying and crept from the tent, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders. She brushed a hand over James' broad shoulders, sighing even as they tensed. He was like an island of calm in the crazy world she'd found herself immersed in yesterday.

"You should be asleep."

"I feel as if I've spent a year sleeping." Margaret muttered quietly as she stared at her filthy hands against James' coat. "I'm tired of sleeping." She muttered vaguely.

"You had a rough day yesterday."

"And you didn't?" Margaret watched as James silently turned the bacon over and dropped lumps of cornmeal into the fat. He didn't answer her, but continued to stare into the coals of the cook fire. She rubbed at the back of her right hand, trying to rub away the dirt and dried blood, but it wouldn't go away. She stepped away from James and turned towards the tree line.

"The food will be ready soon." James called over his shoulder. But Margaret didn't answer and he turned in time to see her disappear among the trees beyond the camp.

Margaret stumbled a few times, tripping on fallen branches and roots. Her steps sounded loud as she scurried through the fallen leaves towards the creek she could hear rushing ahead of her. Ice clung to the edges of the little stream and clung to the reeds and branches that poked up from the banks. She found a spot to kneel and thrust her hands through the thin crust of ice and started scrubbing away at the offensive grime that stained her hands.

* * *

James fished the potatoes from the coals with a stick and wrapped them in his kerchief as the bacon popped and the cakes finished frying. He glanced over his shoulder at the tree line wondering what was taking Margaret so long. He pulled the pan from the fire and set it out of the coals before he got to his feet and left the little fire. Worry washed over him. She might be hurt, could have fallen or fainted in the woods. She might have stumbled across a lost soldier, wild with fright or savagely angry after the fight. What if she'd been waylaid by a madman, or what if the rebels had come across her? It was easy enough for James to follow the path she'd left in the leaves and he jogged through the trees, hoping to meet her on her return trek. He rounded a tree and saw her kneeling beside the icy little stream, scrubbing frantically at her hands. He approached slowly, watching as she rubbed her hands beneath the water.

"Margaret?" she gasped and teetered back from the edge of the stream, her hands red from cold and scrubbing.

"I can't get rid of the blood…." She glanced down at her hands. "It won't go away, it just spreads out over my hands…"

James knelt beside her and looked at her hands where she'd rubbed them raw. There was no longer any blood on them.

"That's not blood, Margaret." James held her wet hands between his own and spoke slowly, as one would to a child. "You've rubbed your hands raw…"

"No…it….I…" Margaret fell silent and then stared up at him. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing." James pulled her to her feet and walked away from the creek, pulling her gently along with him. "You're fatigued and battle weary. That's all."

"I feel like I'm losing my mind…like this is all a dream." She stumbled and bent double a moment. "I feel ill." James waited for her to straighten and then cupped her cheek, bringing her eyes to meet his.

"You'll feel better once you eat something." He said, studying her wan expression and wild eyes. "You're tired and hungry and you've been through much this past day." Margaret's eyes fluttered close and she took a deep, calming breath. She would trust James; she had no choice.

Neither one spoke as they returned to the cook fire. James sat Margaret beside the fire and placed a still warm potato between her palms. She wrapped her cold fingers around it and sighed as warmth seeped back into her frozen fingers. James set the food back in the fire briefly to warm and then fished out cornmeal and bacon to set on a plate for Margaret and one for himself. She stared at the plate of food he placed in her lap as she held on to the potato.

"Am I going mad?" She whispered.

"Eat something and I'll answer that question." Briefly, Margaret narrowed her eyes at him before she slowly broke off a piece of cornbread and put it in her mouth. For a brief moment he saw Margaret's true character shine through, the fire and resolve glowing in her eyes. He watched her chew for a moment before he settled back and set to work on his own breakfast.

"You are _not _going mad." James answered. "You never should have been put through what you saw yesterday."

"What has that to do with anything?" James turned and looked at her, glancing from her plate back to her face. She took the hint and broke off another piece of cornbread and chewing the fairly tasteless gob slowly. Satisfied, James nodded and answered her question.

"No one should have to see what you did yesterday." James sighed, mopping up some of the grease from the bacon with one of the corncakes. "It's something that will stay with you for some time."

"I've seen blood before…I remember that fight at that inn, and the ambush." Margaret shook her head, the long suppressed image of the soldier on the road, the dead one whose gun she'd tried to defend herself with coming back to her. "Why should this be any different?"

"Scale." James answered around a mouthful of food. Margaret ate slowly and eventually managed to choke down the flavorless corncake. The bacon was completely out of the question; no matter how hungry she was, her stomach rebelled at the idea of consuming the greasy meat. She peeled the crunchy skin from the outside of the potato and chewed on the soft, warm white flesh within. The food sat heavily in her belly and the silence of the morning surrounded them. It made Margaret feel isolated and alone; terrifyingly alone. Suddenly, Margaret felt a desire-a vital need-to be in contact with someone. Slowly, she let her head drop towards James, and then subconsciously she leaned in toward him, resting her head against his arm. He stilled for a single moment before he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer as he rocked back into a more comfortable position.

"Stolen moments…." Margaret whispered. Though she still felt tired she no longer cared to sleep. Her nightmares contained things she didn't want to think about and she desperately wished to remain awake. She stared absently into the fire as James' arm curled around her.

"Feeling better?" James asked quietly, the question rumbling into Margaret.

"I'm not sure." Margaret said into the stillness. "Part of me wants to sleep forever. The other part never wants to sleep again."

"Why is that?"

"Dreams." James felt Margaret shudder beside him as she whispered the word. "Dreams so horrible I don't' want to describe them."

"It's over now. The dawn has come and you're safe." Margaret closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the smells of morning in an army camp; smoke, damp canvas and cooking bacon. James was right: The battle had ended and anything she'd seen in the last day was over and done.

_Until the next battle…._

Margaret shivered again as the unwelcome thought bowled through her. James stroked her arm slowly, radiating security and calm into her. She very nearly closed her eyes, so rested did she become. James slowly stroked her arm, the two of them relaxing in the cool air of morning.

"I need to go to command again. The entire army is in a state of flux." James said suddenly. "Will you be alright?"

"This isn't my first time in camp, James." Margaret smiled slightly. "I'm sure I can stay out of trouble."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Margaret sighed. "It was a long day yesterday. I won't say it wasn't difficult for me. I never expected to experience something like that. But I promise you….I'm fine. I will be fine."

James nodded a moment, continuing to cradle her against his side. It was comfortable for all that they were surrounded by discomfort and hardship. He didn't want to let it go. Slowly, James eased away from her and rose to his feet.

"I'll be back as soon as I'm able. Our ranks are…." He trailed off, staring across the virtually empty camp.

"Go. I'll clean this up. I'm capable of at least that." Margaret said, also rising. _I'm certain I can handle something that easy….that domestic. Something that won't require being up to my elbows in blood and bile…. _

She crouched to pick up the detritus from their breakfast and rose to stare James in the eye. He studied her, his eyes dancing over her face and down to her hands where she cradled the pan against her apron before returning to her face. Margaret looked away, the intensity of his gaze unnerving her, and she hefted the dirty dishes higher. When she looked back towards James he was closing the slight distance between them and before she could draw another breath, he was kissing her. Heat raced up Margaret's spine, bursting in her chest as James pulled her close to him, ignoring the skillet she still clutched, his fingertips played gently against her scalp, tangling her already wild hair. There was no gentleness, no softness or chasteness in this kiss. It tasted of desperation and passion and something that Margaret couldn't quite place. It reeked of desire; desire to know that both of them were alive, and whole and real. It stole her breath and made her feel weak in the knees. James stepped away suddenly though his fingers were still tangled in her red gold hair. Both of them took deep desperate breaths, both shocked by the emotions that had come crashing over them, threatening to drown them.

"I'll be back later this evening." James' voice was hoarse. Margaret nodded mutely, unsure of her own voice. She cleared her throat before answering.

"I'll be here. Right here." James took a few steps backwards, not taking his eyes off of her before eventually turning and striding away. Margaret remained beside the fire, clutching the dirty skillet even as the sound of hoofbeats reverberated through the camp. Slowly she turned from the fire and walked into the woods, back towards the little stream where she would be able to rinse the dishes before returning to camp to wait for James.


	33. End in Sight

Margaret watched the sky darken. James had been gone all day, had still not returned. And now the day was over.

After James had left, Margaret had cleaned the breakfast pans and plates. She tidied the camp and then lugged buckets down to the creek and hauled them up full. Her arms burned, and she stopped frequently to rub the sore and tired muscles. Once back at camp, she set the water to boiling in a large pot before taking the hot water into the tent. She removed her petticoats and jumps, her blood stained short gown; she washed and scrubbed all of the horror from the day before away, all of the dirt, all of the gunpowder. She didn't want to be constantly reminded of the sights, sounds or smells of the day before. She didn't want to wear the filth of battle any longer.

Once her skin was scrubbed pink and clean of all grime, she put on a clean set of clothes and set to soaking the bloodiest of her clothing. She had decided that she would scrub her skirts later. She had been too tired to do it just then, and had set the bucket with her dress outside the tent and then decided that she would brave the camp. Slowly she wandered between the rows of tents, listening to the men. Many of the tents were empty. Some of the men were taking them down. These men seemed to need something to occupy their thoughts and their hands….they were industrious in the post-battle languor that seemed to settle over the army. Other men seemed content to sit outside their tents and stare into cook fires. None of them spoke; hardly any looked up as Margaret passed them by. Margaret felt as if she belonged to neither group. She didn't want to do anything, but neither did she want to sit and stare at a fire all day long. One thing seemed certain though; no one was in the mood for conversation, no one felt the need to discuss what they had witnessed.

* * *

Sitting now in the fading light of the camp, Margaret could not think of a single thing she'd done to occupy her day. Certainly she'd washed her gown clean; a gown now hanging up to dry against the side of the tent. But she couldn't make sense of the day. Her eyes ached and her head pounded dully as she slowly darned a stocking. Eventually the light faded down to just that given off by the tiny fire before her. She slowly set the mending down in her lap to stare into the orange flames dancing beneath the stew pot. The pot bubbled softly as she kept a meal warm over the fire. One of the more active men had gone out hunting and brought down a doe, though how he'd managed to find game in an area that had recently seen the cacophony of battle baffled her. They had brought her a nice sized haunch of venison and since the supply and baggage trains had finally caught up with them, Margaret was able to set down to making a half way decent pot roast. A very small bit of bacon flavored the watery broth and floated amongst wild carrots and onions, mustard greens, and potatoes. Her stomach growled loudly and she nearly doubled over with the emptiness of it. She hadn't eaten since James had made breakfast but didn't want to eat until he had returned….he had promised to be back later this evening. She would wait….

* * *

James rode back to camp as quickly as he could, the meetings at command had given him a dreadful headache and most of it still buzzed back and forth in his mind. When all the counts had been taken, he was the senior most officer left in the ranks of the dragoons. Ranks woefully depleted and completely inadequate to assume the duties expected of them. They would need to recruit to flesh out the ranks and assume their place amongst the British Army. James had been placed in charge of that recruitment, recruitment that would have to be done in Charlestown, hoping that newcomers to the colony would wish to fight for their King or that boys, desperate for glory, would want to enlist now that they had come of age.

That last thought made James' stomach twist. The thought of recruiting green boys was unappealing, but was necessary. Several of the infantry commanders were talking of recruiting from cradle and grave to fill their own ranks. He too would have to recruit some younger men to fill out the ranks of the dragoons. Older men just wouldn't be able to handle the long hours in the saddle and the demanding nature of maneuvers. As James walked his horse into camp, he rubbed the bridge of his nose trying to physically rub away the dark thoughts that now plagued him. He dismounted and handed his horse off to a groom and wandered through the camp, checking on his men.

_His men. _The thought slammed into him and he struggled to make sense of it. He was the commander; the leader. These men were now his responsibility. All of them-_and Margaret._

Yes, Margaret was his responsibility too. He had spent little time today thinking of her situation, but knew it was something they would have to address. Out of everything that had happened today, the idea of keeping Margaret safe, and discussing a plan _with _her was by far the best part of gaining command. He approached the tent where she had stayed the night before and felt drawn forward by the delectable scent of cooking venison and stew vegetables. James stopped just outside the ring of light, watching as she sat beside the fire with mending clutched limply in her lap. She hunched forward, a pained look twisting her features. He stepped forward quickly kneeling beside her even as she looked up at him.

"Are you alright?" Margaret responded with a bright smile. Her eyes were clearer, less haunted than when he'd left her this morning.

"I'm fine." She said, grasping his forearm, warmth and happiness radiating from her to him. "Just hungry….I waited for you…"

"You shouldn't have." James' own stomach growled in response and Margaret smiled.

"Aren't we a pair." Margaret picked up their two plates and spooned out the roast, happy with the way it had turned out. "Both of us with our stomachs growling and chatting instead of eating."

James sat beside her and tucked into the roast. He groaned appreciatively, filling his rebelliously empty stomach. They ate quietly for some time before Margaret broke it.

"What's going to happen?" Margaret asked into the quiet camp. "What was decided at the command?"

James sighed before he answered, pushing the venison across his plate as he chased down a tender carrot.

"We need to fill out the ranks. The dragoons can't operate as we currently stand." Margaret watched James out of the corner of her eye. "The infantry is going to rob cradle and grave to fill out their ranks. I plan on being much pickier in my choices of recruits."

"Cradle and grave?" Margaret had heard the phrase in camp before but didn't think it would ever come down to recruiting old men and young boys; boys too young to know better. She shuddered as she thought of all the men who had died in the past day, transposing their faces with those of Edward and Henry. She had hoped they wouldn't be involved in the war, hoped that in haring off with Colonel Tavington and the dragoons that they would have been kept from it. Slowly she came to realize that they had already been involved in it. They had been involved in it that night when the dragoons had burst in on their supper and had been involved in it when the farm had been burned out. They'd been involved in it for as long as it had raged. No matter how far someone went, how much they tried, they would always be involved in the war, it was all around them. Margaret set her plate down in her lap. She didn't have much left on her plate anyway, but she no longer felt hungry and it no longer looked appetizing. James noticed the action, even as he swiped at the last morsel of stew from his own plate.

"Your siblings wont' be involved, Margaret."

"Not just yet…I know they're still too young; but not by much. And how long is this going to go on? How long before thirteen or fourteen isn't 'too young' to…" the phrase _to catch a bullet _caught in her throat and she had to stop. Silence filled the space around them and James levered himself up and crossed to where Margaret sat staring into the nothingness between her and the fire. The melancholia had settled over her features and James hated to see the weight of it settling over her. It made her look older…

He knelt beside her and picked up her plate, looking pointedly at the pieces of potato and carrot still sitting on her plate.

"I'm not hungry James…if you're still hungry, you can finish it."

"You need to eat…"

"I'm not hungry." She said more emphatically, finally tuning her gaze to his. He smiled in spite of the rebuke.

"Well, at least there's some fire." He chucked her under the chin as he rose and went off into the darkness to wash up the dishes. When he returned she had her head bent over her mending, a small smile turning up the right side of her mouth. "Ah….and a smile as well?"

Margaret barked a small laugh as James came to settle in beside her. She set her mending aside as his arm slipped over her shoulders and she allowed him to pull her closer. Yes, this was what safe felt like, and she would enjoy it for as long as that safety would be offered to her. "When will we leave?" Margaret asked, staring at the wood as it broke apart in the little fire. "Where will you recruit?"

"There is to be a brief furlough…an opportunity for men to go home and recover after….after the battle."

"That's rather unusual, isn't it?" Margaret's time spent behind the stockade at Fort Carolina had told her that much. The high command wasn't much for letting its men grow unused to the lines of battle.

"It is, but since the dragoons are such a specialized unit, and because of the losses we experienced, it's been decided that we have time to go home and lick our wounds."

They sat in silence for some time. James did not need to look at Margaret to know that she was muddling over what she would do with the furlough. Her thoughts, silent and wholly her own seemed to buzz around them like a swarm of bees, so intense was the silence.

"I suppose I can stay with the army then." She said finally, picking up her mending. "I'm sure the hospital will need help with the wounded."

"I was hoping you'd accompany me." James said quietly, not at all surprised with the conclusion she'd come to. "I plan on spending some time at Millicent's. She's got some fine horses and it's not far from Charlestown, I plan on recruiting there."

"I couldn't impose on her like that." Margaret said, still focusing on the mending in the pale light from the dying fire. James settled his hand over hers. It was an action that never failed to shock him, for whenever he held her hands in his he realized how small she was.

"It wouldn't be an imposition. She lives in a great big mansion all by herself. She'd be grateful for the company through the winter." Margaret turned to look at him, a question or a retort ready to be launched at him. He blocked the salvo with his own mouth, sealing her lips with his and preventing any argument she might raise. Slowly he cupped her jaw with his other hand, gently sliding his fingers back into the silky mass of hair that had taken on a copper sheen in the evening light. Slowly he ended the kiss, resting his brow against hers. "I want you to come with me." He whispered. "I want you safe and away from the army."

"I've been safe with the army for over a year now, James." She whispered back.

"You think so?" James traced the line of the scar on her cheek with his thumb, even if it was an underhanded move. He felt her tense up beneath his touch and attempt to pull away but he held her fast. "Even the Colonel could not keep you entirely safe when he was alive. Now…?"

"You think because of his death, I'm more vulnerable?"

"I do. Margaret, I don't know how to keep you safe, not here, not in the camps." James sighed and ran his hand down her arm to grasp her hand in his. "But I can take you away from all this. I _want _to take you from all this."

Margaret stared at where he grasped her hand in his. His large hand dwarfed her own, making her feel childlike and insignificant. He was giving her a way out. Her bargain with the colonel was made null with his death. He was offering her an escape from the violence and terror of war, the fear that had been with her every night for the past year. Sitting in the dark and silent camp Margaret realized that for all of her bravado, her anger, and her desire for adventure, she had been afraid ever since she'd first gone with the dragoons that long ago summer night.

"Your bargain was made with the Colonel, the fear he bred in everyone kept them from you, but now that he's gone I fear you'll be vulnerable to attacks from other camps. I fear that the rebels will grow bold now that "_The Butcher"_ is dead and will come after you again. You're too closely aligned…"

"Yes." Margaret suddenly croaked, cutting off James' diatribe. "No more arguments. I don't need convincing." James studied her face a moment longer before he crushed his lips to hers, passionately conveying how happy her declaration made him. Margaret smiled, even as his lips moved against her own.

"You're crying…" James said when he eased away from her. He brushed at the tears streaming down her face, cupping her cheeks in the cool evening air. Her smile broadened in response, shaking her head. "You don't know why?"

"No…not at all." Margaret leaned back and swiped at her own cheeks, brushing the tears away. "I guess it's just hard to believe that this is all over. That this ordeal is finally coming to an end."

"I'm sorry it had to come to this….that it took so long to get you out of here."

"That it took the Colonel's death?"

"Did you love him?" The question, which at one time may have offended her, didn't bother Margaret at all.

"No." Margaret thought to the dream she'd had; the one in the forest where James and William had both been present. "It was always you."

"Truly?" The grin he sent her way made her insides turn to liquid, like hot wax. She didn't know how but her smile grew in return.

"Truly." James slid closer to her, slung his arm casually across her shoulders, and pulled her closer to his side. Margaret, warm and relaxed, melted into James' side, comforted by the weight of his arm over her shoulders. She went back to her mending, but found it difficult to concentrate. Her head nodded heavily as she set even stitches into the toe of the stocking she was darning. James watched out of the corner of his eye as Margaret set fewer and fewer stitches. He chuckled softly, drawing her attention.

"You must be exhausted." James smiled as Margaret yawned. "You _are _exhausted."

"Both of us must be exhausted." Margaret mumbled. She leaned away from him, turning to yawn again. James struggled to his feet, pulling Margaret up beside him. He was surprised at how very tired he was.

"You're right about that." James wrapped an arm around Margaret's waist and led her towards her tent. "I'm too exhausted to tell the men about the furlough. It can wait until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" James smiled at Margaret's inability to grasp what he was saying. He brought her into the tent and helped her sit on the edge of the bed. He knelt to unlace her boots and then rose to pull the blankets up to her chin. He brushed at a sheaf of hair that had slipped over her cheek, only to see that she was already asleep.

"_Good." _James thought. "_Someone needs to sleep."_

__It would be a long and busy day tomorrow.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm terribly sorry about the long gap between chapters. The wandering life of seasonal employment doesn't leave much time to build up chapter buffers. The fact that someone at work downloaded music illegally and the FCC shut down our connection doesn't help matters either. It's a bit of a hike to get to an internet connection. I want to thank everyone for their patience with this story and with my erratic postings. I also want to thank everyone for their reviews. I can see the end in sight, almost there folks!


	34. Promise

It took no time at all the next morning to strike the camp. The dragoons were all too eager to escape army life. Margaret watched as tents were struck and loaded into the back of supply wagons. Some men carefully loaded personal effects of the fallen into a different wagon. These would be returned to Charlestown in hopes that a family member would turn up to claim them. Some of them were taking belongings directly to the families of their comrades. Margaret fingered the letter in her pocket; the one destined to go to Hooker's wife. She began to move through the camp, helping where she could, merely observing at other times. By the time night fell, half the remaining dragoons had left for their furloughs while the other half would depart with the dawn. James and Margaret would go last of all, after all of the other men had left the camp. As night started to fall, Margaret cooked for a few of the remaining men, those left behind banding together in a tight little knot of community. Margaret listened, occasionally laughed, as everyone began to relate tales of home. James sat beside her as everyone spoke quietly. At one point, she felt James' fingertip ghosting over her own fingers. It was a surreptitious gesture….one meant to be kept from the eyes of the dragoons near them. As the others began to return to their own tents, James escorted Margaret back to hers.

"If we leave early tomorrow we can be at Millicent's plantation the next evening." James said quietly. "I won't lie to you Margaret; it will be a long, difficult day in the saddle."

"I've spent days in the saddle before. I'm not delicate James." James moved quickly in the darkness, hooking Margaret's waist with his arm and turning her about to face him. She squealed, not prepared for the exuberant action and found herself hauled from the ground and up against the broad chest of the man she loved. The thought made her heart race and she smiled, buoyed by the notion that she was in love and was loved in return by the same man.

"I know you aren't delicate. You are the strongest woman I know. You have a fire and a passion that is unparalleled. And I love you."

"I love you as well." Margaret felt choked by the strength of the emotion. Her smile lit up her face, but seemed to light up the entire camp. Never had she said those words and meant them more. James lowered his head to hers but paused a hairs breadth from her lips.

"Say it again." He whispered against her lips.

"_Je t'aime." _Margaret said before she closed the distance between her lips and James'. It was more than she could have ever hoped for, and the two of them tried to convey the depth of their love for one another without words. Margaret shivered as James' hands moved from her back to her rib cage, gripping her tightly in his strong hands and gently letting her feet touch the ground.

"You'll need your rest for tomorrow." He whispered.

"So will you." Margaret eased away from James, their hands remaining joined for as long as possible until only their fingertips touched. "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow."

* * *

James and Margaret arrived at Millicent's plantation after two days of hard riding. Millicent welcomed them with open arms, setting a luxurious table and trying to distract them from the horrors they had seen while at war. She turned a blind eye when James would steal kisses from Margaret and didn't bother to chaperone them as they walked through the dormant plants in the autumnal garden. Millicent knew what Margaret and James did not want to admit; that soon James would have to uphold his duty to the army and depart for Charlestown so that he could return to General Lord Cornwallis as commander of the dragoons.

* * *

"Marry me." Margaret stared at James, her chest tight as they stood beneath the skeletal arms of an angel oak, the great branches sweeping down around them.

"What?" They'd been quiet on their afternoon stroll, enjoying the sounds of the autumn; leaves crunching and geese squawking. "What did you say?"

"Marry me. When this is all over."

"Over?" James smiled at her bewildered expression. "I…"

"Say yes Margaret." He grasped her hand in his, tugging her closer to him beneath the branch of the great oak. "Say yes before I have to leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?!" Margaret tried to step away, but James held fast. "Why tomorrow?"

"I've tarried her long enough. It's time I recruit and return with those men to the army." Margaret shook her head rapidly, blinking back tears. "You knew this day would come."

"I know, I did….I just hoped…" James pulled Margaret close. She grasped at the lapels of his coat and slowly wrapped her arms around him as he ran his hands up her spine.

"I'm still waiting on an answer." He said tucking her head beneath his chin. "Please say yes."

"Marry me now." Margaret whispered, leaning back to study his face. "I don't want to wait."

"I don't either, but I won't leave you a widow." Margaret shook her head, dreading the word he whispered.

"I've been widowed once before." Margaret turned her head away lest James see the way her lip trembled, but James gently grasped her chin and turned her gaze up to his.

"Which is why I ask you to marry me when this is over. When we are at peace and don't need to fear what might happen…."

"Don't talk like that!" Margaret snapped. "Stop talking about the "what if's" and "maybes" and "might be's," especially if those "What ifs" involve you never returning." Margaret tugged away from him, ducking around the big oak and looking out over the barren hillside as it dipped down to the Cooper River. The black ribbon of water moved slowly, serenely through Millicent's property, so calm that the water seemed flat and unmoving. Margaret stared at the water, focusing on how calm it was; thinking about how unlike her own life that water was. Her life seemed to be turbulent and out of control and moving at a pace she was unable to anticipate.

"Margaret?" She pulled her gaze away from the river and stared back at James as he leaned against the oak. "I'm sorry I upset you…I thought-"

"I feel like I'm being swept away. The past few days have been so wonderful. So…." She trailed off as she took in the view around her. The sky had turned a dusky shade of purple that contrasted the autumnal golds and browns around them. "It's as if we've been living in a bubble separate from all the war and I don't want to lose you to what's outside of this. I've lost everyone because of this…."

James quickly stepped forward as she broke down. He wrapped her in his arms and gently rocked her back and forth as she wept. He knew that Margaret was a strong woman, but the nightmarish scenes of war had stayed with her. Their second night at Millicent's he'd heard Margaret shout in her sleep. He'd rushed down the hall in the darkness, struggling to come to full wakefulness because in his sleep addled mind he feared that someone was abducting her or attempting to rape her. He'd burst through the door of her room realizing belatedly that no one would attack her at Millicent's plantation.

_And yet, we attacked a plantation in order to get to children…._

He'd fumbled for a candle and had lit it to find Margaret tossing in bed, struggling against the quilted bed cover. He had just set the candle on the bedside table when she'd begun to scream. Millicent had rushed down the hall in her dressing gown, nightcap slightly askew grasping a candle of her own. James settled on the bed beside Margaret, shaking her shoulders to gently rouse her. She'd sat up, gasping for breath and looking about the room wildly. Millicent had handed over a cup of water, watching warily as Margaret shook from head to toe. Once calmed Margaret had slept through the night and long into the next day. Millicent had questioned James the next morning regarding the incident, but James had no answers for her.

Now he stood holding Margaret in the setting sun, wanting to promise her the world and yet withholding it until an as yet unknown date. He had contemplated sneaking away, not telling her when he was leaving, but knew that was the coward's route. He'd thought about waiting until the end of the war to ask her to be his wife, waiting until he was free of the army. But the idyllic and beautiful setting beneath the angel oak had pulled the words from him. This was not at all the reaction he had hoped for from her. In his mind he'd seen a smiling 'yes' at his request for her hand, not anger and tears.

"I hate this." Margaret muttered, still clutching the lapels of his coat. "I hate the war, I hate what it's done to me."

"I hate parts of it." James whispered, stroking her hair away from her face. The light touch at her temple made her shudder. "I don't hate that it brought me to you."

"I don't hate that either." Margaret said looking up at him. "I hate that I'm so afraid. I don't remember being afraid before this."

"Considering the things we've witnessed. What we've lived through…." James heaved a sigh, looking at the beauty surrounding him, from the woman in his arms to the gently waving grasses leading down to the reeds in the river. This was completely at odds with the scenes he had dancing in his head…flames leaping into the night sky, men torn to pieces, and blood. "Margaret, I want you to stay here with Millicent. I want to know that you are going to be safe and I want to know that I can come back here and find you when this is done. And I want you to be a part of my life. I want you to stay here in this…bubble…of safety, I want to know that you won't have to go through battle or see the things we've seen."

"It isn't the blood James. I come from a long line of midwives. It's the violence of it that shakes me." Margaret turned in the circle of his arms, leaning her head back against his shoulder as the two of them took in the last of the golden light of the day sparkling on the black river. She ran her hands down his forearms to lace her fingers with his where they rested over her stomach. "I know I don't want to go back to it, but I don't want to be here and not know what's happened to you."

"I don't want you going back either." James' voice was a soft, comforting murmur against her ear. "But I want to know exactly where you are so when this is over I can make you mine." The two of them were silent as the sun sank slowly beneath the distant horizon and sent bursts of light across the western sky.

"You promise?" Margaret's voice was a strained whisper as she fought back tears.

"I swear it to you with all my heart, for it is yours and yours alone." Margaret turned to face him, watching the sun highlight his face. "Now, will you answer my question? Will you wait for me and be my wife when this war is through?"

"Yes." Margaret leapt into James' arms, hooking her arms around his neck; whether she pulled him down, or he hoisted her up, she'd never know. His arms wrapped tightly about her waist as he crushed his lips to her own in a searing kiss, one that she felt from her very lips straight down to her toes. "Yes, of course I will…" She finished when she could finally breathe. "I will wait for you James Wilkins."

"Let's go tell Millicent." Margaret felt giddy. She felt like she could finally be the young girl that she'd missed out on being. James grasped her hand in his, squeezing it frequently as he pulled her along behind him. Every so often he'd pause to swing her about, pulling her close to him and kissing her breathless before pulling her along again. Margaret laughed, in spite of the melancholia she'd felt, in spite of her misgivings and her fears, she let herself live in the moment, relishing the fact that if she were to be loved, she would enjoy it, for however long it might last.

That evening, Millicent, James and Margaret enjoyed a large meal in celebration of their pending union. Margaret laughed as she hadn't laughed in a long while, reveling in spending time with James and Millicent and hoping to keep the dawn at bay for just a little while longer.

* * *

The next morning dawned cool and cloudy but Margaret was up early. She and James broke their fast together, Millicent gave them their space and let them eat alone. They sat quietly for a time at the long table before James reached over and gently grasped Margaret's hand. No words were exchanged, just a gentle squeezing of hands. Eventually James rose from the table and went to his room to finish packing his belongings. Margaret went to her room and took up her shawl, wrapping it tightly around her. She walked out to the stables, silently passing several of Millicent's slaves. She entered the low building and went to the stall where James' horse was. She took her time brushing the animal down and then went about saddling it. She had just slipped the bridle over the horse's head when James walked into the stable.

"There you are…." James ghosted his hand across the small of her back as she tightened the halter.

"I couldn't sit idly by and watch you leave." Margaret sighed, caressing the nose of James' war horse. "I haven't sat idle in a long while. I've been living my life with the army….always on the move, always doing something. Even at Fort Carolina."

"That's all over now."

"What if I don't want it to be?" Margaret said turning to face James. "I've been living a very peculiar kind of life James. I've been active and independent…."

"And that does not have to stop." James clasped her hand. "But you don't have to work yourself to exhaustion. Not for the army any more. You don't have to worry about the rebels or battle or being in danger any more."

"Not for myself at least." Margaret muttered. "But I'll be worrying about you."

"I'll write you."

"You know the mail isn't reliable." James slipped the reins through Margaret's fingers to grasp both of her hands in his. "I'm being impossible, I know it."

"If I thought you'd be safe, I would keep you at my side."

"I know." Margaret sighed. "Safety and security is something to get used to as well."

"You're resilient Margaret. And I think that you just might enjoy your time here with Millicent."

"An easy life…" Margaret whispered as she glanced over James' shoulder at the land beyond the stable doors. She twined her fingers with James' as they both walked towards the stable yard. The sun struggled to cut through the misty morning clouds. "I will worry for you."

"And I will worry for you."

"Why? You said yourself that I'll be safe here." She said as they turned to face one another.

"I will worry that you will put yourself into a dangerous situation because you are not capable of staying out of trouble." Margaret swatted at James' shoulder. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her waist. "And I'll worry that someone else will come along and steal your heart away."

"Never." Margaret shook her head as she gazed into James' eyes. "It's yours. It always will be."

James kissed Margaret then, pressing his lips to hers in a fiery kiss, speaking volumes without saying words, saying far more than he had previously.

"I'll let you know when we move, as soon as we move." James whispered as he hugged her close. "Say you'll write me in return?"

"Of course I will." Margaret buried her face in his coat, memorizing his scent and hiding the fact that her eyes had begun to water. "Stay safe. Please stay safe and return to me."

"That is my fondest hope." James kissed Margaret again, the two of them ignoring Millicent's approach. The three of them walked from the stable yard and towards the front stoop. Margaret tugged her shawl around her hugging her middle as she watched James say good bye to Millicent. James swung up onto the big stallion, locking eyes on Margaret where she stood at the foot of the stairs of Millicent's expansive mansion. "Stay safe Margaret."

"I will." Margaret nodded. She felt Millicent move closer to her, an encouraging arm coming around her shoulders. "Don't worry about me." Margaret said, plastering a false smile on her face. "We'll be perfectly fine here. Worry about yourself. Stay safe, please." Margaret hated that her voice cracked on her last plea. James nodded, his eyes never leaving Margaret's face. She lifted her chin, the defiant gesture bringing a smile to James' own face. He wheeled the horse and the animal surged forward when he let it. Margaret watched as James rode away from her and finally disappeared around a bend in the drive. Margaret's composure shattered then, her knees crumbling beneath her as she began to sob. Margaret sank down beside her, wrapping her arms around Margaret and allowing her to cry.

"It will be alright Margaret." Millicent whispered. "It will work out. It has to."

And Millicent prayed fervently it would; she could not bear it if Margaret was hurt again, if she lost someone else she loved.


	35. Letters

_My Dearest Margaret, _

_I have arrived in Charleston and am actively recruiting troops to fill out the woefully inadequate ranks of the dragoons. I delivered many of the letters to the families here in Charlestown; as you can imagine, it is a difficult task. One I wish that was not mine to dispatch, but as I am the commander it must be done. Through their grief, many of the widows have expressed their thankfulness to learn of such sad news from a friend and comrade of their loved ones. It's better to learn from one who has seen and lived through the same terrors as their loved one. I suppose it is because I can answer questions better than a stranger can; "Were they brave?", "Did they pass easily?" and others. Of course, I don't know some of these answers, but feel obligated to come up with a convincing response. Always though there is the un-asked question—Why did _you _survive and my loved one perish on the field? If the fighting was so fierce, how did you come through it? There are times I am tempted to succumb to the melancholia but then _you _come into my mind, like an angel, and I am delivered from the blackest of thoughts. You are my light, my shining light leading me ever towards truth, right, and home._

_I think of you often, and hope this war ends soon that I may return to your arms and never again be parted from you. _

_Yours always, James_

* * *

_My Dear James, _

_I received your letter and though glad at its arrival was saddened by its news. To think of all those families that needed to be informed of their losses! And what of those that may never know? Those whose fathers, sons and brothers were mowed down and had no one to witness it? I grieve for them most of all. But I do not care to think of it. I wish to fill what I know to be the bleak world of a winter camp with happiness. I think you are far from the mark in calling me your light, but if I am to be your light, then I must strive to shine on. Millicent has permitted me to tend her still room and I spent the first weeks after your departure scouring the woods for the late season roots and herbs she was lacking. We are quite well stocked now and I am certain we could weather the winter comfortably and with no harm. It keeps me busy, and for that I am grateful. That is all I can hope for-to remain busy enough to keep myself distracted from your absence. Daily I search the end of the drive hoping to see you riding back to me, and until that day comes, I fear I will be lost in this winter bleakness. I love you with all of my heart and hope to God that the day I so fervently pray for is soon in coming. _

_Yours forever, Margaret_

* * *

_My Love, _

_I hope the new year has found you well, for it beats this army soundly as never have I seen it do. The new men are finding it a difficult transition. For the youngest, men searching for glory and prestige, the winter camps are a far cry from the banners and pomp they've seen on review or read of in books. For them it is life in the winter camp, learning drills, caring for their mounts and waiting on patrol. For the older men, they are haunted by memories of past battles and fears of those to come. I wish that you did not have to deal with such fears, though I know you are too strong to admit to dealing with these shadows. I deal with them at times myself. As the weather turns warmer, Lord General Cornwallis intends to move farther north and try to attack the rebel commander Washington in Virginia. He feels that the Carolinas will be in fine hands with Tory Leaders and that he need not secure a foothold here. I argued with him, but he would not listen. It pains me to be separated from you, to move even farther from you. But in doing so, I hope that we defeat the rebels and can be together that much sooner. Remain busy if it keeps you happy. Just remain safe._

_ James_

* * *

_James, _

_You spoke of winter bleakness in your last letter, of the New Year and of moving north. That was months ago, though it seems like years. We received word from some of Millicent's friends who decided to come up from Charles Town to inquire after her health. Worry not, for we are both hale and hearty, though I fear you are far from the same condition. We heard grievous reports of how underfed the army is, how that is what was spurring the move north. We then heard reports of battles, but the bits of news come in so haphazardly that it is difficult to put anything together in a logical fashion. Considering how slow news travels we don't know if these engagements happened before or after you rejoined the army. I realize you are quite busy, and even a stream of couriers between us would not get news from one to the other any faster. Please stay safe. I worry for you; no matter how I try to occupy my days, my heart aches with worry every moment that passes. I often find myself lost in thought, wondering if you are safe, or if you are hurt. I wonder where you are and what you are doing. I worry for your safety, as I will always do for as long as this bloody war rages. I look forward to your next letter, as I look forward to them all, for even seeing your hand writing makes me feel as if I am closer to you. _

_All my love, Margaret_

* * *

_My Darling James, _

_It has been long months since I received a letter from you. Millicent and I retired to Charles Town to shop, socialize and to gather news, or rather gossip. I know not what to believe or who to listen to. We hear such ghastly things about all that occurs in the North. Dreadful reports of routs on both sides, fearful word of French Armadas and of the number of the dead. I think Millicent is trying to keep me from hearing such things. I believe she worries for me…for my sanity. I will admit these reports dredge up the memories of the battle last autumn. I see the faces still, though they have begun to grow fainter and fainter as time wears on. I have mixed feelings on the matter. Part of me says that I should ignore these rumors and not follow garbled and manipulated reports, but another part of me says it will be my only word of you. If you have sent letters to the plantation, then they may not get to us here in town. I fear that a courier, long traveled and weary will not want to further his route by taking letters all the way to us in Charles Town. I fear that I have missed some of your letters. I hope to return soon; and when I do, I hope to either find a stack of your letters upon the side board or to see you sitting in the parlor, comfortable and alive and safe. I'd much prefer the latter for it would mean an end to this conflict and that we could finally join our lives together into one. _

_Margaret_

* * *

_James, _

_I grow more and more worried by the day. I have received no letter from you since April and even that letter was quite old when it reached me. I feel that by now I should have heard from you-had at least one letter. I fear that something has gone horribly wrong. We have heard virtually nothing since returning to the plantation. I'm tempted to take one of the horses and ride north. It can't be too difficult to find the army, and then at least I'd _know _something. Instead I occupy my time with gathering herbs and tending a small garden plot. I spend long hours outside working, much to Millicent's chagrin I'm certain. I can't abide sitting idle. On poor weather days that drive me inside I find myself sitting with needlework in my lap, unable to finish it. I can't concentrate and spend long hours staring out the windows hoping to see a courier at the very least coming down the drive. At least when I work outside I ensure that I am so exhausted by days end that I fall into bed, too tired to dream. I hope these letters are finding you. I hope that you are safe and that you are just too busy to write, or that the couriers are getting lost or confused. I will wait, as ever, on word from you, or of you. _

_Margaret_

* * *

_James, _

_The days have grown shorter and colder. The leaves on the trees have begun to turn colors and to fall. I realized this morning when I crawled from the bed that one year past I spent the day securing bandages and taking care of the wounded. I walked across a battlefield, one that no longer haunts me as it did, and saw unspeakable carnage. I do not trust to hope that today will end as that day a year ago did. I do not believe for a single minute that at the end of today you will come to me. I do not believe for one moment that you will come walking slowly up the drive, weary from travel instead of battle. I do not believe for one moment that we will share a meal together, or touch palms or walk beneath the arbor out in the garden. My frustration with this war and the lack of news grows more and more each day. If this letter does manage to find you, I hope that you are far from battle, that you are safe and sound and that you are returning to me soon. _

_Love, Margaret_

* * *

_James, _

_Happy Christmas. There would be no greater gift in the world than your safe return home. I feel that all of these letters are going unread. I fear that all of the what ifs you discussed last autumn have come to pass. I don't know what to say any longer. We received word a few weeks past that Lord General Cornwallis was forced to surrender at a place called Yorktown. Word from Charles Town came that the French Armada was not a rumor at all and that the Lord General was forced to give up lest the entire army be destroyed. Oh! How my heart rejoiced at this news! I felt certain that your return would not be far behind its delivery! But alas, that was weeks ago. And no matter how long I stood at the window, waiting to see you ride into the stable, you never came. I will admit, I grow despondent with no sign of you and no word. I fear that I will be one of those women who will never know what occurred to her soldier who died far afield. I fear the worst has occurred and after having hung all my hopes on our eventual union, I don't know where to go from here._

_You promised…_

* * *

Millicent watched from the doorway of the drawing room where Margaret sat writing yet another letter. No word had come from James in months and no matter what she tried to distract Margaret with the girl spent long hours staring out the front windows of the house hoping to see a dragoon coming down the road. She sighed quietly as Margaret lifted her head from the letter. Millicent saw Margaret's shoulders shaking silently as she tried to hide her tears. Slowly, Margaret rose to her feet, as if she were being dragged down by an impossible weight. Millicent's heart fell as she watched Margaret touch the letter to the candle flame she'd been writing by. As the paper caught, Margaret strolled over to the fire place and dropped the missive into the blaze. She could see the tears on Margaret's cheeks in the light of the fire. Though she wanted to go to the younger woman, she had no idea what to tell her. Millicent moved away from the door before Margaret could see her. She had her own letter to write.


End file.
